The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw Page B

sunset was ending, dividing the sky into a yellow wall and jewel-blue ceiling. Robins darted among bare branches. Ducks bobbing on the water tucked their beaks under their wings. A faded crisp packet crackled in the wind.
    He wondered whether Ida would show up, because she was late. They’d arranged to get some fish and chips, and he’d come here straight from work, down the winding cobbled road from the florist in the High Street to the exposed grass of the park. He crossed his arms and stamped from foot to foot. Even over two jumpers and three T-shirts, his ropy coat couldn’t keep him warm. He was uncomfortable about the fish and chips. When they had left the café the day before, Ida had suggested they meet up again, for a meal. He’d not tried any of Ettinsford’s restaurants or bars, so when she asked him for a recommendation the only place he could remember visiting was the chip shop, maybe six or seven years back. She’d said it wasn’t what she’d had in mind, but insisted that if it was what he recommended she’d give it a shot.
    He was surprised she had wanted to meet up with him again, after he’d told her he couldn’t help her find Henry Fuwa. In the café when she’d said his name his gut reaction had been to shake his head and deflect the memory of bouquets. Yet later, in the evening when he boiled the kettle for his hot-water bottle, he noticed he felt deceitful. As if he had betrayed her.
    Memories were just photos printed on synapses. As such he justified sharing some of them with the world while keeping others locked in hidden albums. Yet as he’d poured the steaming water down the bottle’s rubber nozzle, some queasy emotion made him shudder, splashing scalding water over his hand. Was there some law at work, some authority that required him to submit his memories of Fuwa to her as evidence? He hadn’t slept well, had sat up in bed with his bony knees bundled close to his chest, feeling too spooked to turn the light off.
    Now, in the park, he wondered how he could tell Ida that actually, yes, the name Henry Fuwa did ring a bell, without making her angry that he hadn’t done so before.
    A tramp waddled into view on the other side of the clock tower, holding a carrier bag of blue cider bottles. Somebody walked slowly behind him. When the tramp slouched on to a bench, Midas saw that it was Ida. Only, her gait was different. She had abandoned her walking stick in favour of a stout wooden crutch.
    He knew the moment she smiled across the park at him that he would let himself down. Braving the queasy feeling was better than braving her anger. His gullet rippled as he willed the guilt back inside. She approached along the edge of the water, wearing the same white hat and knee-length coat he’d seen her in before, and it struck him again that her face and eyes were almost monochrome in pallor. The cold gave everything acute definition, and she was no exception. He wanted to rip off his lens cap and photograph her there and then.
    ‘A pleasant afternoon,’ she said, looking up at the sky.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, deciding not to comment on the switch from stick to crutch.
    ‘You look freezing. Sorry I’m late.’
    ‘You’re not.’
    She looked at the clock face. ‘I am. Really, I’m sorry. I still find it hard to allow time for these.’ She pointed at her boots. ‘I was dreading you’d think I wasn’t coming. Aren’t you cold? Midas, there’s a hole in your coat!’
    ‘I’ve got two jumpers on.’
    ‘But aren’t you cold?’
    ‘A bit.’
    ‘Okay. Then let’s grab those fish and chips.’
    He nodded to show enthusiasm and walked slowly beside her out of the park and across a road to the chip shop.
    A wooden fish hung over the door. Cracks and smears of bird shit sullied its blue paintwork. The smell of grease and batter wafted on to the pavement. It smelt even stronger inside, in the hot close air where the blue walls were tiled like a swimming pool’s and were painted with murals