His toes are tiny and she’s amazed at how small and perfect they are. She buys him two pairs of Baby Gap socks. They cost her £4.99 and last three whole weeks.
He’s older now, at school and going to cubs in the evening. They make him wear long grey socks, which are held up by green garters. His older brother steals them to get him into trouble. He gets a clip round the ear from his Dad for losing them, and a dead-leg from his sibling when he tries to retrieve them.
No socks now. He’s working abroad; picking melons under a scorching, unforgiving sun. His Jesus’ sandals chafe and rub mercilessly.
It’s Monday morning and he just makes the 8.19 from Surbiton to Waterloo. Black socks with two stripes; one purple, one orange – so they don’t get separated in the wash. They wear eventually until a small hole appears underneath his right heal. It gets larger as he gets older. The left sock comes out in sympathy and another hole gradually appears.
Warm, thick grey socks now which stay put for days on end: cosy and familiar – man’s best friends.
They show her in. He’s there but not there, his old socks gone.
