Short Fiction: For sale: child’s shoes, never worn

Arthur Broomfield

After reading Ernest Hemingway’s ‘for sale: baby shoes, never worn.’

---Arthur Broomfield

Entrepreneurs’ weather, I was thinking, wishing I had gone into business instead of law. There was a spring in my step that bright May morning as I strolled with my paper from the corner Spar. A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from Jules’ bakery as I headed towards my favourite coffee shop.  I was looking forward to reading the verdict in the O’Reilly case, over a cappuccino in Costa, across the street.                                                               

It was sellotaped to the right-hand corner of Herbie’s shoe shop window.   A huddle of middle-aged women having drawn my attention to its location. .One of them was reading aloud. The group was assembled in the kind of loose formation you could see from a rugby team who’d conceded a try. Some were waving and pointing to the notice. As I got closer I became aware of a babble of doleful ohs and ahs, the low murmurs, the slowly nodding heads, the postures, akin to mourners at a funeral home 

I could hear the woman I recognized as Mary Murphy read …SHOES…NEVER...WORN.  Mary had helped to rear us when my mother had been taken ill.  I glanced at it, cautiously, as an ‘Irish Times’ reader might, thinking I could hardly share an interest in shoes with women who wore Lidl runners and anoraks a size too small. I nodded towards them, politely and upped my pace, glancing at the lead story in the Times as I hastened on.       

‘Did you…did you... see this, Mr. Hennessey?’    Mary Murphy’s voice trembled.                                                                                                        

‘Oh, good morning, Mary’.                                                                              

 ‘It’s there above the women, take a look at it, will ye’.                                  

‘Well, well…I am in a bit of a hurry Mary’.                                                   

‘Stand back girls, please, and let Mr. Hennessey see what he can make of it.’  

Apathy would best sum up my mood as I, the sole representative of the uncurious, moved through the huddle.                                                  

‘Go ahead and read it Mr Hennessey’. Mary wasn’t letting go.

I glanced at the notice without reading it, feigning interest to please Mary. The other women moved in closer to me. The chatter stopped.  I was the centre of attention for an expectant group of women that I otherwise would not have acknowledged, and I must admit I felt somewhat uneasy. I had seen some of them from time to time in Dr Hoban’s surgery. One regular   - who was now clad in a Glasgow Celtic cap - I learned was Jacintha.

 ‘Oh I’m in a terrible way with me nerves’ she was confessing to the man next her, and the entire surgery, on a particular morning when mine were jangling after a night’s indulgence in Johnny Walker. I remembered Jacintha.

‘What you think of it, Jacintha, I asked before studying it.

‘Oh I don’t like it Mr. Hennessy, God forgive me, but it looks like a tragedy to me, a tragedy, God save us.’

Murmurs suggesting agreement rippled round me.

Sensing I was up against a force predisposed to morbid inclinations   I studied the notice more carefully.                                                                             

FOR SALE: CHILD’S SHOES. NEVER WORN. it read.

‘Maybe we should ask Herbie’, I said.

‘An’ d’ye think he’s goin’ to tell us the truth an’ kill the sale of them’ Jacinta was having none of that. Go easy Hennessy I was thinking, this lady could throw a tantrum of consequences.

‘There’s certainly sense in your reasoning there, Jacintha’ I paused wondering where to take the argument next. She adjusted her green and white cap, raised her head and pursed her lips.

‘But ‘I continued, sensing   strong maternal instincts could prejudice the judgement of said ladies, ‘let’s look at what the actual notice says, let’s look at the wording of the document’. Many a court case had been won and lost on the creative interpretation of the text of a letter or will. I was thinking of a famous case won by Sean McBride SC. This case had to be fought too.            

‘We know what the words says, we’re not blind you know Mr Hennessey,’ Mary Murphy’s voice was shriller now. Some of the women moved back from me, and closer towards Mary, nodding and murmuring in support.  

I mulled over the text of the notice, silently, as I might over a complex legal document.                                                                                              

‘Ladies’, I argued, ‘there is absolutely nothing here to suggest a tragedy of any kind’.                                                                                                   

‘And what d’ye think happened the Godforsaken infant, you that has all the brains?’  A new contributor to the debate piped in.                                   

‘There’s no evidence of any such…’                                                    

‘Battered to death by some brute of a father, if you ask me,’ Mary said. Shuffles and ‘yeah yeahs,’raised the tempo further.                                                   

 ‘Or drowned in the bath,’ Jacintha said, ‘if ye ax me.’  

I glanced through the window, to the interior of the shop, past the site of the controversial notice. Herbie was preparing for the day’s business, tidying stuff from the counter, labelling prices on shoe boxes, arranging account ledgers. A book, with a picture of Ernest Hemingway, lay on the counter. Just at that moment he turned towards the window. His eyes met mine and for a split second I detected a smirk creasing his face. I spun round wanting to shout Eureka! The women’s tone had grown louder, their faces redder, some were stamping their feet, others were rubbing tears from their eyes. I would need to deliver my best court room performance if I were to win this case. Jacinta was pursing her lips again, glaring at me as if I were the brutal father guilty of an increasing catalogue of crimes against infants. I imagined her about to shriek

‘An now ye’er goin to sell the misfortunate’s shoes, ye monster!’  

‘Ladies’ I commanded, ‘please listen for one moment’. The silence surprised me, better get to the point quickly.’ I ask you, what is the manner of business conducted in this shop?

‘Well it’s not fish an chips is it’ Mary’s leer brought a laugh from the assembly.

‘Precisely. So is it to be expected that such an enterprise would be in the business of selling child’s shoes?                                                         

‘But they were never worn, answer me that, me man.’

I could feel the sun’s rays warm on my back.                                       

‘You are absolutely correct Jacintha. Now may I ask you a question, would you buy, from a reputable shoe shop, shoes that had already been worn - perhaps indeed in circumstances similar to those outlined by you - for your new baby?’                                                                                                           

‘Well, have it your way… maybe so…but there’s something not right…’    

I wanted to scream it’s a fucking shoes shop isn’t it, what do you expect them to sell, but held my composure. Gasps and nods in my direction told me what I wanted to hear. I tapped on the glass. Herbie looked up; I winked back to him.

And the O’Reilly case? He’s a Fish and Chip shop proprietor who’s been accused of the murder of his mother-in-law, with the aid of a deep-fat frier. Can’t wait to catch-up with it.   

*** 

BIO: Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer and Beckett scholar from Ballyfin, Laois. His has publications include five poetry collections, a study on the works of Samuel Beckett, and a novel, When the Dust Settles. He is SETU author of the month for his short story, Boyos. Arthur has completed two short story writing courses with Claire Keegan. He holds a Ph.D.  in English literature from Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick.

---

Setu, April 2025