The Big Frog Theory - 10
The weekly serialisation of my Magic Realism novel.
TWENTY
There were no formalities at the airport. Neville and Samuel simply walked away from the plane and towards the waiting taxi in which Binky was already installed. Samuel had divested himself of his flying gear, returning it to its place of origin before leaving the plane. As Neville watched him, he realised that he had forgotten his companion was essentially an old man; how old it was difficult to say, but his reference to “the war” was intriguing.
Binky was sitting on the back seat of the cab, nursing a shoulder wound.
‘Hah! We showed those rotten blighters, didn’t we boys! Blasted the bounders from the sky!’
Neville caught the scent of medicinal brandy on Binky’s breath.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Me? Never better, old boy! Just a spot of shrapnel in the shoulder, you know. Always gets me there. Fainted clean away! Thank God for the skipper, what!’
Binky turned to offer Samuel a congratulatory thump on his shoulder, but as he did so the pain from his wound sent him swooning in a heap to the floor of the car. Neville bent forwards.
‘I’d leave him Sir, if I were you. He’s probably better resting there.’
As they pulled away, Neville wondered how close Binky’s “resting” had been to finding a permanent heavenly abode — and how long it would be before he was plundering the skies again in his ancient machine. He looked out of the back of the cab to see the old bi-plane being pulled from the runway to a waiting hanger. Presumably it would sit there until Binky had recovered sufficiently well to fly it home.
‘The hospital; then the docks, please.’ Samuel gave the instruction to the driver, then turned to Neville. ‘Are you OK, Sir? Would you like to take that jacket off?’
Neville was still wearing the sheepskin from the plane.
‘I’d like to keep it — just for a while, if that’s OK.’
‘Still cold?’
‘The shivers. That’s all.’
It was a half-lie, but sufficient to allow him to extend his loan of the garment. He was uncertain as to his exact feelings at that precise moment. There was, he suspected, a degree of shock yet to emerge as a result of the flight, and he was unsure how that might manifest itself. It was certainly warmer on the ground than it had been in the air, but Neville was taking no chances.
Half-way to the hospital, Binky roused himself with a cry of “Blighters never fight fair!” followed by half a chorus of “There’ll always be an England” before passing out again. Locating a cushion, Samuel pushed it under the pilot’s head.
‘Has that happened to you before, Samuel?’
‘What, Sir?’
‘That; the dog fight.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know; you seemed quite “natural” as a pilot. And you said something about the war.’
Samuel smiled.
‘Yes, I did.’ He paused. ‘Let us say that I have flown an aeroplane on more than one occasion — and something not dissimilar to that we flew in today.’ He paused again. ‘But you, Sir; you have a fine eye, if I might say so!’
Neville, buoyed by Samuel’s praise, abandoned his original line of enquiry.
‘I was just lucky, that’s all.’
‘Nonsense Sir. The way you took out that second chap; most impressive. Most impressive.’
‘Well, perhaps I’d got the hang of it by then.’
The conversation trailed off, and the journey was soon broken by their arrival at the hospital. Three porters were waiting to haul Binky from the floor of the cab and onto a waiting trolley. His cry of “Give my love to Blighty!” was the last they heard as he disappeared through the swing doors of the casualty unit.
With Binky taken care of, they were off again, the taxi rolling sedately through the narrow streets of St. Peter Port. Neville had lost track of time — was it Thursday or Sunday, he had no idea — and was consequently uncertain whether or not to be surprised by the relatively small number of people out and about.
The volume increased a little as they came to the waterfront. In the marinas, dozens of boats bobbed hopefully in the water, criss-crossing their masts in animated — if silent — conversations while their owners discussed the state of the tides or the winds whilst knotting ropes or sipping pink gins. Further along the quay, a large and impressive vessel was moored: the S.S.Pilgrim.
As they approached the ship, Neville could see a few people walking the various decks and hanging over the railings looking back into St. Peter Port. He tried to remember what “M” looked like, but could only conjure a vague image in pink; certainly insufficient to locate her among those he could see now.
A couple of taxis pulled away as they drew up. There was a single walkway up to the deck, and this was covered with a white cloth awning which rippled in the breeze. Neville expected this to bear the name of the ship, but it displayed the name of the port instead. At its base a young dockhand stood, his hands in the pockets of slightly grubby overalls. He looked up at their approach, and seeing them get out of the taxi, walked over.
‘You the two daft gits who missed the boat in Southampton then?’
It was not the sort of greeting Neville would have expected. The Channel Islands had a certain reputation, a certain image in his mind; this man did not match that.
‘We did miss the boat in Southampton, yes.’ It was Samuel who replied.
The young man looked after the retreating taxi.
‘No bags?’
‘I believe everything has been taken care of. May we board?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘It’s up to you, Daddio. I mean, we’ve only been waiting for you, haven’t we?’
Neville sensed Samuel stiffen, ruffled by the abusive treatment they had just received. Neville noted the man’s last comment which suggested he was one of the ship’s complement, rather than an islander.
‘Come along then, Samuel,’ Neville prompted, ‘let’s get on.’ And as they walked past the dock hand, Neville managed to tread — with a deliberate degree of force — on the young man’s left foot. ‘Sorry; my fault.’
The look Neville received in consequence was sufficient to suggest he might not have seen the last of this particular character.
They passed under the awning, and began the climb up to the deck. At the top, one of the ship’s officers was waiting for them; this time the greeting was a sharp salute.
‘My name’s Porter; I’m the Bursar. Glad to have you on board, Gentlemen. May I show you to your cabins?’
And with that he turned on his heel and began to walk away, safe in the knowledge that Neville and Samuel were bound to follow him. Voices now rose from somewhere else on the ship, and Neville looked back to see the insolent dock hand running onto the ship from the walkway just as a crane began to haul it away. From the jetty, men appeared to be suddenly busy with ropes, and a “whoop, whoop” from the ship’s whistle set the seal on their preparations for departure.
As they followed the Bursar along the deck, a number of the passengers leaning on the rail waved towards the shore, but Neville could see no-one to wave back. Perhaps somewhere in the town — and armed with binoculars — there might be relatives invisibly signalling.
Porter took a sharp turn through an open doorway and into a corridor.
‘Mind your head, Sir,’ said Samuel, indicating the slightly low lintel.
‘I’m fine Samuel, thank you.’
A few yards along the corridor they came to a stairway leading upwards. Porter, this time after a brief glance behind and a slight, professional smile, took these stairs to the next deck. At this point they came across another corridor and another set of stairs. Once again Porter ascended.
At the top of the second set of stairs, the Bursar waited for his two new passengers.
‘If I can explain,’ he said, once they had joined him, ‘you arrived on-board on deck “C”. We have just come through deck “B”, and are now on “A” deck; this is where your cabins are.’
He began to walk along the short corridor, a little more slowly this time, talking as he did so.
‘You gentlemen were quite lucky with your bookings, as it happens. I understand you arranged passage a little late? We had a couple of cancellations and both twenty seven and twenty eight became available.’
They had arrived at two doors, set close together, with numbers on them Porter had indicated.
‘They are adjoining cabins, with a door between them should you require such a facility.’
‘Thank you’, said Samuel.
‘You take twenty seven, Samuel,’ Neville suggested, thinking instantly of the bus. ‘Is that OK?’
Both other men nodded their approval.
‘Your baggage is here I believe,’ the Bursar said. ‘I’ll let you get settled in, then arrange for Bursar, the Porter, to come and check that everything’s “ship shape”.’
‘”Bursar”?’ said Neville.
‘Yes?’
‘No; sorry, Bursar. I mean the Porter; his name’s Bursar?’
The uniformed man smiled.
‘Yes; and my name’s Porter, and I’m the Bursar! Don’t worry; it confuses everybody, especially the Captain!’ And with that, the Bursar bowed and left them.
Samuel opened the door to his cabin to reveal a rather spacious interior which looked, for the most part, like a very expensive hotel room. Neville followed him in. The adjoining door to his own room was open and, having had a brief scan round twenty seven, Neville walked into twenty eight. This cabin was identical to Samuel’s, with the sole exception of the door’s location.
His bags were at the foot of the bed. He wondered how they had managed to get here before him, whether there had been some other way of getting across the Channel, or if, at the end of the day, it was another of Samuel’s “tricks”. It seemed unimportant.
‘Nice cabins, Samuel.’
‘Very nice, Sir. We should be comfortable here, don’t you think?’
Neville felt the ship begin to roll slightly underneath him as they got underway.
‘Do you want to have a wander round on deck, Samuel? Wave Guernsey goodbye?’
‘If you don’t mind, Sir, I think I’ll just have a rest. A little nap perhaps. I suspect they will be calling us for dinner in a couple of hours or so.’
‘Fine. I’ll see you a bit later then,’ and with that Neville closed the door dividing the rooms.
His first instinct was to go searching for “M”, but practicality suggested it might be wise if he unpacked his bags first and then perhaps freshen up. It was a little after five and, as Samuel had suggested, they had no wish to be late for their first evening meal on board.
The two bags on the bed were familiar to him, though, on opening them, he discovered some new items of clothing: bright T-shirts, some shorts, and a pair of sandals that had obviously been included as a nod to the Mediterranean. His suit was there (of course!) as were the other items of casual wear he had expected. There were also two new pairs of shoes: one in smart black leather; the second, a kind of blue canvas deck shoe.
As he toyed with the idea of slipping into the naval shoes, there came a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’
The door opened to reveal an exceptionally tall man, dressed in a uniform similar to the Bursar’s. The first thing Neville noticed about this new man, as he bowed low in order to be seen, was the large bandage he wore around the top of his head.
‘M-m-m-may I, Sir?’
‘Please.’
As the man stooped to enter, he failed to duck low enough and banged his head right about where the bandage was.
‘F-f-f-flaming doors,’ he muttered. Neville wondered if the bandage was there to tend an old wound or prevent a new one.
‘Can I help you?’
‘N-n-n-no Sir; c-c-c-can I help you,’ the man bowed, showing Neville the full extent of the bandage which, from this new angle, resembled nothing less than a full turban. ‘I’m B-b-b-bursar; the P-p-p-p...’
‘Porter,’ Neville offered.
‘Is there anything I can d-do for you, Sir? Would you like any d-d-d-drinks, or anything?’
‘No, I’m fine thank you, Porter.’
‘C-c-c-call me B-b-b-bursar, Sir, if you would. P-p-p-porter’s the B-b-b-b...’
‘Bursar. Yes, I’ve met him.’
‘N-n-n-n....’
‘Nice chap; yes.’
Bursar looked around a little helplessly.
‘Well Sir, if that’s all. J-j-j-just to t-t-t-tell you that the C-c-c-c...’
‘Captain?’
‘Has invited you to d-d-d-d...’
‘Dine?’
‘With him this evening, Sir. Eight o’clock; main b-b-b-ballroom, Sir.’
Neville smiled.
‘Thank you Por — Bursar; I dare say we shall see you later.’
The Porter considered replying, thought better of it, then bowed again. Neville watched him as he left, waiting for what he assumed would be the inevitable dull thud as his skull hit the door frame on the way out. Bursar paused at the door, then made a special effort to bow low. It made no difference: “thump!”
‘F-f-f-f....’
And the door closed with a naval “click”.
Neville went back to his bags and completed the remainder of his unpacking. The voyage to the Mediterranean would, he assumed, take a few days; after that, they would spend some time visiting the islands themselves. The clothes available to him would seem to be adequate to cover that period, but what about after that? As he sat on the bed, once again he recognised there was no clue as to what might happen at that point, nor where he would be going. Had there ever been such clarity, he wondered? Presumably there might come a time where there would be no “next” for him to consider.
As he slipped closer to philosophy, a voice whispered ‘”M”’ at the back of his brain, and he decided to take a quick tour of the ship before dinner. He donned the canvas shoes and opened his cabin door.
TWENTY ONE
Once outside his cabin, Neville paused. He looked right to the stairwell from which he, Samuel, and Porter had emerged a little earlier, then left to the end of the corridor which was delimited by a single door. He decided to walk left.
The numbers on the cabins continued ascending until forty was reached, this being the last cabin before the grey door. Neville looked back. He guessed from the length of this particular passageway that there were perhaps twenty or so rooms — presumably much like his and Samuel’s — leading from it. He placed his hand on the handle of the exit and pushed it open.
He was immediately hit by fresh sea air which carried with it the hint of salt spray. The front of “A” deck was not a large affair, boasting a few recliners and deckchairs, and the odd wrought iron table welded to the superstructure. Neville walked to the front rail and leant over. Just below him he could see both “B” and “C” decks, and beyond them the bow of the ship complete with capstans, ropes and the like.
The two lower decks were kitted out for a number of pastimes; Neville could make out the markings of games’ courts of various kinds, including one he assumed was used for some form of curling. There were a few people milling around, fewer than he had expected, but the weather was not as brilliant as it might have been.
Despite the flying jacket, he now felt a little chilly. Turning, he noticed a second door leading back inside from “A” deck and, as he walked towards it, couldn’t fail to see the bridge of the ship above it. Neville looked up. He was greeted by a sharp salute from someone behind the glass; he guessed the Bursar, though he could not be sure.
The corridor beyond this second door was much like his own; indeed, the similarity was so great that Neville immediately remarked to himself on the enormous potential for confusion. The first door to his right bore the number one, and — as he suspected — ascended from there; the numbers proving to be the only distinguishing feature of this passageway from his own. At twenty there was a stairwell down to “B” deck — presumably in parallel to that he had so recently climbed on the other side of the ship — and once there a further set of cabins.
Rather than another door at its end, this passage bore round to the right by ninety degrees and revealed another, shorter corridor. At the end of this, another turning which mimicked the “U” shape of the “A” deck walkway above. From the bottom of the “U”, a single, much larger double staircase dropped down to the deck below. Neville checked his watch. He had enough time before he needed to prepare for dinner to push on with his exploration.
The bottom of the stairs opened out into a large lobby, adorned with soft sofas and parlour palms. There were one or two notice boards, and a place specifically designed to leave messages. Neville scanned this. It was much like the pigeon-hole system used in hotel lobbies. Finding his own room — “A-28” — and the empty slot assigned to it, he then decided to take a brief rest on one of the sofas. The lobby was deserted at present, though he had seen a couple leave just as he arrived.
From his new vantage point, Neville noticed again the remarkable degree of symmetry the ship possessed. Indeed, here it was not only left-right symmetry as he had already noticed on “A” deck, but fore-aft symmetry too. In each corner of the lobby, an archway led off in its own discrete direction, yet all appeared identical.
He had not been studying the ship’s architecture for long when a voice assailed him from behind the settee.
‘Bastards!’
Neville turned. An exceptionally large Venus fly trap was leaning towards him, its two major leaves open like a single eye complete with lashes. The leaves suddenly snapped shut with a vengeance, and another pair became the plant’s mouth.
‘Bastards!’
‘I’m sorry; but who are you referring to?’
‘You. Them. Everyone,’ the plant snapped back, swaying slightly closer to him with the motion of the ship.
‘Who is “everyone”?’
‘The bastards who put me here, on a bleeding ship, miles from anywhere.’
‘Is there something wrong in that?’ Neville asked, moving away to the edge of the settee and relative safety.
‘I suppose you’ll be having dinner tonight with the Captain, won’t you? Stuffing your bleeding faces, I bet!’ The plant snapped open and closed again. ‘And me? Starving bleeding hungry. Not a fly in slight. Stuck on board a bleeding ship; don’t they know I’m supposed to be carnivorous?’
Neville was beginning to feel vaguely uneasy about his aggressive companion.
‘I’m sure they must have flies here somewhere, if only to feed you.’
‘And my mates.’
Neville looked nervously around, but could see no evidence of any similar species.
‘Of course; and your chums.’ He paused, eyeing the plant with a degree of mistrust; just how carnivorous could one of these things be? ‘Look,’ he said rising, ‘if I find any flies, I’ll keep them for you. OK?’
‘Sure,’ snapped the plant, ‘that’s what they all say!’
Without waiting for a more suitable conclusion — if there could be any such thing — Neville made a move down the nearest corridor.
There were cabins on “B” deck too. Neville noticed that they also bore numbers in the same range as the level above, but here the doors to the cabins appeared to be slightly closer together and just along the outside of the corridor. On the inside there were other doors that bore legends such as “Staff Only” and “Laundry Room: B3”. As he continued his stroll, he even came across one marked “Bursar: A.Porter”. “B” deck was obviously not quite so desirable as his own. There would be more comings and goings here, more noise, and the cabins were probably less spacious.
After a few strides he came to the end of the corridor. He had evidently been walking towards the rear of the ship as the corridor now gave way to another lobby, this time with large glass doors opening out onto the aft deck. This lobby was also deserted, though out on deck a number of people were standing at the rail, wrapped up warm against a strengthening breeze, and watching the wake of the ship as it pointed back to the now invisible Channel Islands.
Neville contemplated joining them, but decided against it. Checking his watch, he decided that it was probably time for him to return to his cabin. As he walked back — exactly the way he had come to avoid getting lost — he realised he had not been given a map of the ship. This would have been useful at this present moment — and would probably be so in the future should he wish, say, to find the ship’s Doctor. At some stage, he would ring for Bursar and get him to fetch one.
When he got back to the Venus lobby, there were a few people at one of the notice boards. Neville joined them and discovered that they were examining the seating plan for that evening’s dinner. A large diagram, filled with circles representing tables, had been annotated in a practised hand with the names of the passengers. He found his own surname next to the Captain’s on the top table. He recognised none of the others on his table, and wondered which of them — if any — belonged to Samuel. There was also — of course — nothing which said simply “M”. Neville nodded politely to his fellow passengers as he left the lobby, and made his way back up the staircases to “A” deck.
When he reached his cabin, he found the adjoining door open and Samuel moving between the two. On his bed, a white shirt lay ready for him to wear at dinner, and Samuel was currently making sure his suit trousers had a sharp crease in them.
‘Hello, Sir. Had a nice stroll?’
‘Just a quick wander, that’s all.’ Neville took off his flying jacket and threw it on a chair. On the small table near the porthole, steam rose from a pot of tea.
‘I’ve just made that Sir; please, help yourself.’
Neville went to the table and began to pour the tea.
‘It is a nice ship, don’t you think? Have you seen very much of it?’
‘I just wandered down to “B” deck; had a look round the lobby, you know.’
‘Porter said he saw you at the front of “A” deck, outside.’
‘Porter?’
‘The Bursar, Sir. He just popped in to let us know where we were sitting for dinner.’ Samuel, having finished working on the trousers, placed them on the bed alongside the shirt. ‘The Captain has invited us to dine with him.’
‘I know,’ said Neville, between sips of tea, ‘I saw a plan of the tables and where everyone is sitting.’ He realised that one of the names on top table had to belong to Samuel. ‘There seemed to be quite a few tables too.’
‘Oh, I think this is quite a large boat; probably a couple of hundred people on it.’
‘It seemed very quiet when I was out, that’s all. Hardly anyone about.’
‘Perhaps they were all unpacking, Sir.’
This seemed reasonable enough. Neville caught sight of an open drawer and realised that Samuel had completed the job he himself had started half-heartedly. He sat on the bed, sipped his tea, and watched Samuel as he finished brushing his suit jacket. Samuel, aware that he was being watched, offered a slight nod and smile. It was more a fatherly kind of gesture rather than that of a manservant, which is what he seemed to be half of the time. Neville felt he was being protected by this old man, as if — an addition to everything else, “tricks” included — he was offering him the benefit of his wisdom.
‘Is that all right, Sir?’ Samuel had finished with the suit which now hung on the outside of the wardrobe along with the shirt. ‘I’ve given your shoes a bit of a polish too, so you should be all ready.’
‘Should I choose the tie?’
‘Second drawer down.’
‘Thank you, Samuel.’
Again the older man nodded, paused as if he wanted to respond to Neville’s suddenly inquisitive gaze with something solid, but then turned silently back into his own cabin, closing the door behind him.
Almost simultaneously there came a knock at the main cabin door. It was a hesitant kind of knock, and sounded like one which had difficulty getting going; “k-k-k-knock, knock”! Neville walked to the door and opened it to reveal almost all of Bursar.
‘S-s-s-sir,’ the Porter said, bending his head beneath the level of the door to effect the greeting. ‘I’ve g-g-g-got you these.’
He extended his hand, and presented Neville with a number of small pamphlets, the topmost one was entitled “Your Ship”.
‘I thought they m-m-m-m-’
‘Might?’
‘B-b-b-’
‘Be?’
‘Useful, S-s-s-sir.’
Neville took them and nodded.
‘Thank you Bursar; just what I was looking for.’ He felt as if he was patronising this tall man in some way, almost without intention; as if there was something in the other which brought such an attitude out of him. A brief pause ensued, during which time Neville became a little unsettled by the thought.
‘Is that all?’ he asked somewhat brusquely.
Bursar thought for a second, then nodded.
‘Enjoy your d-d-d-dinner, S-s-s-sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Neville watched the porter as he turned, straightened, then banged his head on one of the lower ceiling beams as he walked away down the corridor. Neville closed his cabin door on the sound of Bursar’s “F-f-f-f-” as it came back up the corridor. Throwing the pamphlets on the bed, he decided to take a quick shower before dinner.
The bathroom was compact, boasting only a shower, a toilet, and a washbasin. Neville would have preferred at bath — indeed, at that particular moment, he had a strange desire to be back on the bus, bathing in the company of the yellow plastic duck. As he switched on the shower, he remembered the shower head in Paris and wondered — for the briefest of moments — if he were to be in for the same kind of experience here. There was a splutter and a hiss, but then that was it.
He got into the shower in a rather disturbed frame of mind. He felt slightly angry now, though unable to locate the root cause of this emotion; it seemed to be flapping about inside him, without a focus, looking for something to scar as it lashed around. Bursar had been an easy target, and Neville was angry with himself for that. Samuel might have been a target once too, but there was now a little too much between them to allow Neville to even consider it.
As he stood under the jets of hot water — refreshingly strong and slightly stinging — Neville tried to imagine the force of the shower cleansing the anger from him, washing it out of his body, and away down the plug hole. He looked down at where the water swirled away and had an image of someone, somewhere — perhaps the overalled man from the quay side — waiting with a watering can to catch all his anger ready to feed it to the Venus fly trap. He smiled to himself at the picture — as if any more anger were needed there! — and the tension left him.
It was replaced, without any conscious bidding on Neville’s part, by the rather blurred image of “M” as she turned to wave goodbye at the restaurant. He could remember pink, the colour that dominated the image; and if he tried hard, he kidded himself that he could remember her shoulders too. This was a lie, he knew; he remembered Bob’s words, and that was about it. If she were to walk past him in the corridor and he not realise it, then what kind of a crusade was he embarked on?
He thought about that single, neatly folded sheet, and tried to imagine how he might fit into her plans; if she too was on her way to Option 3 — “A” or “B” — where did he come into the frame?
From outside he heard Samuel open the adjoining door and walk into his cabin.
‘Just coming, Samuel,’ he called out, beating the other to the punch. Then, pulling the soap from its holder, he began to wash himself vigorously.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting on the edge of his bed. He could see Samuel in the other cabin looking remarkably smart in a pale grey suit with a rather magnificently patterned tie. Neville wondered what people meeting him for the first time this evening would think of him, of what he did, of his history. And what would Samuel say, to introduce himself?
Neville, in shirt and trousers, had chosen a rather brilliant red tie from the small collection presented to him by Mister Bossiman, and had already remarked on how the suit seemed to be able to complement the colour; however, his immediate concern had become the location of his shoes.
‘What did you do with my shoes, Samuel?’
‘In the bottom of the wardrobe, Sir,’ came the reply from the other room.
Neville checked where directed. The only suitable shoes there were the new ones he had seen earlier, and he had been looking for comfortable old shoes. As he was about to turn away, a voice from the floor called him back to the wardrobe.
‘Hey! Try us!’
‘Yes,’ said another, not dissimilar voice, ‘try us; we’re tailor-made for you, honest!’
The shoes — in bold and shining black leather — had a subtle brogue pattern in them which, to Neville at least, resembled something of a face; or at least, half a face in each shoe. This impression was endorsed when the left shoe — the one that had spoken first — winked knowingly at him.
‘You won’t regret it, will he?’
‘Never!’ exclaimed the right shoe, ‘can’t regret it, can he?’
‘Ever danced, Mister?’
‘Sorry?’ Neville was again sitting on his bed, though with the shoes now in front of him.’
‘Danced,’ said the left shoe again.
‘You know, the old quick step; one-two, one-two-three.’
‘Ah the thrill of the ballroom!’
‘Sorry,’ Neville interrupted, ‘but what’s this got to do with me?’
The shoes winked conspiratorially at each other.
‘You’ll see!’ they said in unison.
‘Ready, Sir?’ Samuel had popped his head round the door, ‘I think we should be going.’
‘Yes, OK; I’ll be right there.’
Neville slipped on the shoes, and stood to get his jacket. As he took a pace forwards he needed to look down to check that he was indeed wearing the shoes. They felt so comfortable, it seemed as if they were not there at all.