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Back The Shoe Queen
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover
  2. “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. ( I )
  7. ( one )
  8. ( two )
  9. ( three )
  10. ( four )
  11. ( five )
  12. ( six )
  13. ( seven )
  14. ( eight )
  15. ( nine )
  16. ( ten )
  17. ( II )
  18. ( eleven )
  19. ( twelve )
  20. ( thirteen )
  21. ( fourteen )
  22. ( fifteen )
  23. ( III )
  24. ( sixteen )
  25. ( seventeen )
  26. ( eighteen )
  27. ( nineteen )
  28. ( IV )
  29. ( twenty )
  30. ( twenty-one )
  31. ( twenty-two )
  32. ( twenty-three )
  33. ( twenty-four )
  34. ( V )
  35. ( twenty-five )
  36. ( twenty-six )
  37. ( twenty-seven )
  38. ( twenty-eight )
  39. ( twenty-nine )
  40. VI
  41. ( thirty )
  42. ( thirty-one )
  43. ( thirty-two )
  44. ( thirty-three )
  45. ( thirty-four )
  46. ( VII )
  47. ( thirty-five )
  48. ( thirty-six )
  49. ( thirty-seven )
  50. ( thirty-eight )
  51. ( thirty-nine )
  52. ( forty )
  53. ( forty-one )
  54. ( forty-two )
  55. ( VIII )
  56. ( forty-three )
  57. ( forty-four )
  58. ( forty-five )
  59. ( forty-six )
  60. ( forty-seven )
  61. ( forty-eight )
  62. ( forty-nine )
  63. ( fifty )
  64. ( fifty-one )
  65. Acknowledgments
  66. Acknowledgments
  67. Questions for Discussion

“Oh, well, it was very complicated. All sorts of complications.” And then the tears were running down the old man’s face. “I’m so sorry.” He drew his hand across his eyes. “My wife…I don’t know what I shall do without her, Robert. You will stay a few weeks, won’t you? You and Genevieve? I’m so alone here.”

( seventeen )

Ticksted, Suffolk,

27th June 1925

Dear Lulu,

I’ve been here for just over a month now. Why haven’t you written? It’s occurred to me that there might be a problem with your post, so I’m sending this letter care of the Coyote. Please try to reply, dearest, even if it’s just a postcard. I’m dying to know what’s been happening while I’ve been here. I shall want to know everything. I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll be back until late July, so I’m going to miss Bastille Day. I feel as though I’m just a shadow, hiding away here. The real me is still in Paris with you. My life is going on elsewhere while I sit here.

I’ve been sorting out Mummy’s things. It has to be done, after all. Putting together little parcels of trinkets and keepsakes for friends and relations. The vicar couldn’t believe his luck when he came by to collect, yesterday morning. The poor and needy of Ticksted and surrounds will be very well-dressed for a while, that’s for certain! I shall keep some things for myself, of course. Jewelry, mostly. She had some lovely shoes, but her feet were quite a bit bigger than mine. It’s sad, dusty work, this clearing out. It makes one think, what is there to a life? What do we leave behind? Not much, in Mummy’s case. Some clothes and jewels and a great many bottles hidden at the backs of cupboards and wardrobes (it seems the drinking was even worse than I’d suspected). You will leave a really fine legacy, Lulu. All those paintings and sculptures and photographs. Not to mention your brilliant songs. You’ll never be forgotten. As for me—well, who knows? I’d like to think I’m a poet, but this seems far from certain. If you see Norman Betterson, would you remind him that he still has my poetry notebook? I’m waiting for his verdict. I don’t seem to be able to write any more poems without it.

It’s very quiet here. Just me and Daddy and the servants. Daddy seems genuinely desolate. It’s as though someone has cut off one of his arms. He’s become terribly thin. Often, he cries. It appears he did love her, after all, though I doubt she knew it. How strange people are.