I smile as I prepare vegetables for tonight’s dinner, while listening to Nina Simone’s Baltimore album, especially my favourite track ‘Rich Girl’. I certainly feel like a rich girl having settled into Jasper’s waterfront home overlooking the Thames. Rich in love, most of all. It’s proving to be the best decision I’ve ever made, so I continue to smile as I contentedly listen for the footsteps that will tell me he’s home. In the meantime, my feet are tap-tap-tapping across the tiled kitchen floor to the amazing rhythm of the track.
Footsteps. The word causes me to reflect on the joyful sound my 18-month-old daughter Sally’s shoes had made as they pattered along wooden floorboards. She would rush into my arms giggling and laughing as I swung her around. Of course, her footsteps changed as she aged. Her squeaky sports shoes rapidly charging up the hallway would announce a win at netball.
Tonight, her kitten heels are tapping on the ceramic hall tiles, proclaiming that she is now fifteen and all dressed up for her first social function. Her blue eyes latch onto mine as she pirouettes into the kitchen with an excited smile on her lovely face. I feel a pang at the obvious signs of her blooming womanhood, and manage to smother the choking in my throat, and hold back the tears that threaten to explode down my face. She has my mother’s sandy-coloured hair, that shines and contrasts perfectly with her sapphire-blue dress. So beautiful. Effervescent. I just wish Jono was here to see his beautiful daughter. I hug her when the Uber driver rings the doorbell, and wish her a wonderful night of dancing and fun, as she races down the hall.
My Dad’s footsteps always reflected the crisp sound of leather lace-ups. Army discipline had dictated how he would live the rest of his life, while Mum’s soft shuffle described her gentle nature. I knew the moment I met Jonothan, my deceased husband, that he was my destiny, my true love, partly because his footsteps sounded just like Dad’s. In contrast, my best friend Julie has a distinctive sound to her footsteps, which echo like a fast-moving stream, never stationary, light, and perpetually moving. Just like her.
I learned to listen for messages about the person. It began when I was chosen to be a tap-dancer in a school play and was given some lessons on the basics. Our teacher, Miss Jackson, taught us to listen to the sounds our feet made, so that we could understand tap-dancing terms, such as Scuff, Scuffle, Shuffle, Drops, Brushes. She introduced us to the notion of Heavy, Hard Footed and Joyous tap sounds. “Just think of the joyous tap-steps of Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire,” she would call loudly across the room. That’s when I started listening for the messages that footsteps could tell me about the person who owned them.
Not that I have always listened for the sound of people’s feet, but there were times when I enjoyed trying to identify people by their footsteps. My daughter’s earliest patter drew my attention with love and joy, so the habit continued from that time.
Sally and I were both ‘only’ children, but we had shared a happy life with my parents and my policeman-husband Jonothan. Tragically, Jono lost his life in ‘the line of duty.’ He was arguing with a teenage meth user, who was resisting having a breath-test. “I’m a Sovereign citizen. You can’t test me,” the teenager cried, drawing a revolver, and fatally wounding my husband of sixteen years. The love of my life, Jono, died that night in the Crisis Care Unit of the local hospital. Our beloved Jono. My parents, Sally and I thought we would grieve forever.
I chop viciously at carrots, shallots and garlic cloves, my lips tight, the blade of the knife a shining sword in my hands as the memories flood back, threatening to overwhelm me. Then I stop, take a few deep breaths, and continue to reminisce, albeit in a random sort of way.
Life was difficult for a very long time, then just to please some friends (and to stop them badgering me) I went on a blind date. In spite of my grief, I had settled into a semi-comfortable existence, but conceded that I needed to open myself up to new possibilities. One of my friends had seen a man’s profile online, and, with my permission, arranged for us to meet. He had described himself as having a GSH – good sense of humour, I was informed, and that his name was Barry. We met up at a pub, and had a few drinks. He was an ordinary looking bloke, zip-up jacket and jeans, five o’clock shadow, and a bit older than me. I had trouble focusing on what he was saying as I was comparing him to Jono – which is a no-no of course. We then strolled along the nearby boardwalk, and I still felt no connection at all with him. While we were casually chatting, I became aware of his footsteps. It was an unusual pattern: step, step, scrape, step, step, scrape, which somehow sent shivers up my spine. Barry was walking alongside me, talking vaguely about the night sky, so, when he grabbed my arm and thrust his face close to mine, it was not entirely unexpected, but terrifying, just the same.
I couldn’t breathe. My anxiety levels escalated, and I was unable to fight him off as he dragged me into some bushes, calling me disgusting names. He was reaching into his pocket for something when someone grabbed him from behind, and started punching him. The figures struggled and fought and I hoped no-one would be killed. Suddenly my attacker managed to free himself and escape. My rescuer was lying on the ground, so I knelt beside him and asked if he was all right. He stood up and put his arm around my shoulders without speaking. We stumbled together to a park bench, where he could catch his breath and I could see his face.
I looked into amber-coloured eyes, filled with compassion for me. “Are you all right, Miss?” he asked. I felt I could look into those eyes for ever. His brow was bathed in sweat and his overcoat was stained and crumpled from his altercation with Barry. I was similarly dishevelled and anxious, but assured him that I was unhurt and thanked him for coming to my rescue. He asked if I knew the name of my attacker, so, feeling like a complete loser, I told him the sorry tale of my meeting with someone called Barry. I said there wasn’t much point in reporting the incident to the police, as Barry probably wasn’t his real name, but agreed to make a statement at the local police station next day. So, my rescuer called for a cab and took me home. He tentatively held my hand, and asked if he could ring me next day to check on me and that was my first meeting with Jasper: same age as me, single, owned his own house and ran his own business.
Unsurprisingly, the police could find no information on Barry, but Jasper and I began seeing each other. Sally and I adored him, and he adored us. Mum and Dad were pleased as well, and there were many fun-filled evenings together.
After six months of being loved and adored by Jasper, Sally and I consented to move into his modern townhouse on the river with him. As my parents had re-located to a bucolic retirement village by then, they were very happy for Sally and me to share our lives with the affable Jasper, knowing that we would be safe and happy.
It’s been just a week since we made the move, and here I am, polishing wine glasses and setting them on the table along with shining cutlery, linen napkins and perfumed candles. The aroma of the red wine casserole wafts seductively around the kitchen/dining area. I sniff appreciatively, full of wonder that this is really happening, after all the dark years of grieving.
“You deserve it, darling,” my mother said when I had shared my feelings with her. I hoped so, and had slowly begun to believe it. Sally would be late home tonight, so it would just be Jasper and me for dinner. I give the salad a bit of a shake, and smile from ear to ear as I hear the front gate click.
I can hear my love’s footsteps on the concrete path: step, step, scrape; step. step. scrape. Alarm bells ring in my head. No. That’s not right. Something’s wrong. That’s not Jasper’s step.
Suddenly my mouth is dry; my hands are shaking. I’m never wrong about footsteps. I know what kind of person those steps belong to. And they’re not Jasper’s! I’m panicking now. Whose are they? They’re coming closer and closer. I know I left the front door unlocked in anticipation of Jasper’s return home, so when I hear it squeak, danger wraps itself around me, making me shake.
There’s no escape from this part of the house, so I open the kitchen window and scream out to the people strolling below.
“HELP! HELP!” My cries fall on deaf ears. Why can’t anyone hear me?
The footsteps are coming even closer and I’m catapulted back to the smell of rancid breath on my cheek, the tight grip on my arms and the heavy push of his body against me as he pushes me into bushes. A skunk. A snake. A shark. An evil man called Barry. Somehow, he’s tracked me down, and hopes to finish the job. I have my back to him, and slide my hand into a drawer containing different-sized knives. I grip the handle of my favourite filleting knife, Japanese steel. Dangerously sharp; guaranteed to slice into any kind of flesh. I won’t let this monster get the better of me.
As I prepare to turn and face the creep, I hear a familiar voice.
“Put the knife down, Sarah. It’s OK. I’m here.” I drop the knife onto the floor and spin around.
“Oh Jasper. I heard the wrong footsteps. I thought you were someone else.”
“Footsteps? Sorry, darling, what footsteps?”
“The step, step, scrape footsteps. You know. The ones I learned about at tap-dancing class,” I say.
Jasper looks at me, a concerned look on his face. “Come and sit down, sweetheart. I’ll get you a brandy.”
I notice for the first time that Jasper is limping. “What’s wrong with your foot, Jasper? You’re not walking as you usually do.”
“Well, it’s a silly story, really. I ran to get a cab outside my office, and skidded on an oily patch on the footpath. I went over on my ankle and had to go to the ER to have it strapped. I’ve taken some painkillers to help stop the pain. So, Sarah, what’s all this about footsteps and tap-dancing?”
I sink into my favourite chair and obediently sip the brandy. My mind is in turmoil. How can I explain what I believe about the relationship between people’s treads and their personality. Maybe I won’t try to explain my tap-dancing theory to Jasper just yet. He might wonder if I’m becoming a bit flaky.
Jasper isn’t letting it go, though. “Why were you so frightened when I struggled up the hallway? And why did you have the filleting knife in your hand? Don’t tell me that awful man is bothering you again?”
“Sorry, darling. I’m so used to your tread, that when I heard such unusual footsteps, due to your injury, I had a mild panic attack, and thought there was a dangerous person in the house.”
“Hmm. I see. However, you’ll have to tell me more about the tap-dancing theory. It sounds very interesting. But I’ll let you rest for now.”
Author: Anne Blair
During my career as a psychologist, I gained knowledge of non-verbal communication, and of its use in assessing clients. I found that this form of communication often gives more information about the person than their verbal responses. In this fictional story Sarah gains insight about people by another non-verbal clue, listening to the pattern of their footsteps.
