on their black slates, âA Day in the Life of a Postage Stampâ or âA Day in the Life of a Pennyâ. ⦠A Day in the Life of a Shoe. He put his hand inside it and felt a nail or a stud protruding and it made him think of the village cobbler who would sit outside his door in the summer months repairing shoes for the villagers, the hammer in his hand, the nails in his mouth, the light falling on the round bald head which looked exactly like a naked stone. He sucked his finger where the nail had bitten him.
A shoe on Christmas Day. Something in the words stirred his mind as if they were trying to send him a message. But what could the shoe have to do with Christmas, with the parcels that had come down the chimney and lay on the table in the chill bare morning, as over the cold linoleum he himself barefootedly and excitedly moved. What could the shoe have to do with Christmas, with the angels and the stars and the baby, especially with the stars that shone so brightly in the sky as they did above his own village on a winter night. Nothing that he could see. And yet here he was bent down on the chill ground holding this old shoe in his hand reddened by the cold.
His mind as if conscious of the snow and the red light around him roved among pictures: of the Eskimos swathed in their heavy furs making holes in the ice and patiently fishing; of Russians in sleighs racing across the steppes under a low sky; of the wind flapping a flag at the North Pole; of icebergs floating like ghosts across the vast Atlantic Ocean. Those pictures had all come from the green-covered geography book which Miss Stilton had recently given them.
His hand holding the shoe was cold and he laid the shoe down on the frozen pool and watched it as if at any moment it would start to move. But the shoe stayed where it was, frayed, wrinkled, ancient, laceless. Iain thought that he ought to go back to his house and play some more with the red car but he didnât really want to, for he didnât like the car much, though he appreciated the gift. After all, once one had wound it up a few times and let it run across the green linoleum, there was nothing much else that one could expect from it. It would just do the same thing again and again and again, for that was all it could do.
He raised his head and looked at the village which lay absolutely still under the reddish light. The people were warm in their houses but the shoe was out here in the cold day exposed and chill and warped. Why was there only one shoe? It seemed so lonely without its companion. Where then was the other one? One lonely shoe out on the grass beside a frosty pond under the gloomy light. It was, however, as if the light, raw and lowering, were trying to tell him something about the shoe. But that was ridiculous. What could the light tell him? About anything? And why was he kneeling in this ridiculous fashion on the icy ground? If anyone were to see him they would think him stupid. But he didnât get to his feet just the same.
Pictures of Christmas came into his mind, and one in particular of the Virgin Mary bending over Jesus in the manger while the dumb animals looked over her shoulder, as if they were trying to see him. But of course the animals didnât know anything about what was happening and neither apparently did the innkeeper, for he had kept them outside the door of the noisy inn. And that was terrible, especially after they had ridden for such a long distance. On an ass. He saw them quite clearly in the raw light, bowed and dispirited, standing at the door in their long dusty clothes, wearing their dusty sandals.
He knelt there, the shoe in his hand, as if he were listening at a shut door. And as he listened it seemed to him as if the hand containing the shoe began to tremble, not with the cold but with something else, with the message. He looked down at the shoe and both it and his hand were shaking, vibrating. What an extraordinary thing. And yet he
A shoe on Christmas Day. Something in the words stirred his mind as if they were trying to send him a message. But what could the shoe have to do with Christmas, with the parcels that had come down the chimney and lay on the table in the chill bare morning, as over the cold linoleum he himself barefootedly and excitedly moved. What could the shoe have to do with Christmas, with the angels and the stars and the baby, especially with the stars that shone so brightly in the sky as they did above his own village on a winter night. Nothing that he could see. And yet here he was bent down on the chill ground holding this old shoe in his hand reddened by the cold.
His mind as if conscious of the snow and the red light around him roved among pictures: of the Eskimos swathed in their heavy furs making holes in the ice and patiently fishing; of Russians in sleighs racing across the steppes under a low sky; of the wind flapping a flag at the North Pole; of icebergs floating like ghosts across the vast Atlantic Ocean. Those pictures had all come from the green-covered geography book which Miss Stilton had recently given them.
His hand holding the shoe was cold and he laid the shoe down on the frozen pool and watched it as if at any moment it would start to move. But the shoe stayed where it was, frayed, wrinkled, ancient, laceless. Iain thought that he ought to go back to his house and play some more with the red car but he didnât really want to, for he didnât like the car much, though he appreciated the gift. After all, once one had wound it up a few times and let it run across the green linoleum, there was nothing much else that one could expect from it. It would just do the same thing again and again and again, for that was all it could do.
He raised his head and looked at the village which lay absolutely still under the reddish light. The people were warm in their houses but the shoe was out here in the cold day exposed and chill and warped. Why was there only one shoe? It seemed so lonely without its companion. Where then was the other one? One lonely shoe out on the grass beside a frosty pond under the gloomy light. It was, however, as if the light, raw and lowering, were trying to tell him something about the shoe. But that was ridiculous. What could the light tell him? About anything? And why was he kneeling in this ridiculous fashion on the icy ground? If anyone were to see him they would think him stupid. But he didnât get to his feet just the same.
Pictures of Christmas came into his mind, and one in particular of the Virgin Mary bending over Jesus in the manger while the dumb animals looked over her shoulder, as if they were trying to see him. But of course the animals didnât know anything about what was happening and neither apparently did the innkeeper, for he had kept them outside the door of the noisy inn. And that was terrible, especially after they had ridden for such a long distance. On an ass. He saw them quite clearly in the raw light, bowed and dispirited, standing at the door in their long dusty clothes, wearing their dusty sandals.
He knelt there, the shoe in his hand, as if he were listening at a shut door. And as he listened it seemed to him as if the hand containing the shoe began to tremble, not with the cold but with something else, with the message. He looked down at the shoe and both it and his hand were shaking, vibrating. What an extraordinary thing. And yet he
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