‘I smelt bourbon and bullshit.’ I smile gently. ‘Can we go back to the night it all went tits up? And I’m not thinking about your friend with the chest and the Sharpie. What happened, Vince? I know we’ve touched on it but are you able to tell me more?’
‘It wasn’t rocket science. She looked like my wife. It was the second anniversary of her death, and I was raw and drinking too much. I had eyeballs on the woman from the wings. She was a willow of a wisp with long hair framing eyes big as the moon. Of course, I knew it wasn’t Viola. I’d seen pain drain the life from her and I’d scattered her ashes into the Avon.
‘The woman was just another random punter with a liking for social media the producer had spotted in his research. But she had my wife’s aura, her stillness. When I approached and stood over her in her seat, she met my stare head on. She could take the shaming, had no shadows to run from, in fact her eyes were silver and flecked with courage. They almost challenged me to do it. And I couldn’t. Couldn’t even say the words. Because I’d already shamed my wife, over and over, before the real canceller got to her– cancer is the most efficient of Grim Reapers, isn’t it?’
‘Do you talk to her? Your wife I mean, not the woman you failed to shame. If you’d consider it now, I think you’d find a Japanese garden to be the ideal place. Spirits feel safe here, I think.’
‘You think she’s here now?’
‘What would you say to her if she was?’
‘I guess I’d apologise.’ He pierces me with his gaze, and when he finally looks away, his lips wobble. We both know he could easily project his message to the squirrels, to the trees, to the shadows and the light, to the turtle and to the crane who will live and love for a thousand years. But he takes my hand and using me as a conduit, keeps it subtle and simple. ‘I miss you. If you are here with us maybe you can see how dysfunctional I have become. I’m still the same asshole husband, of course, but less without you. Less substance. Less confidence. Just less. I hope you’ve found your Shangri-La. Maybe I’ll catch up with you one day and we can try and run from the devil at those ol’ crossroads.’
Vince spends another few moments with the shadows and spirits, closing his eyes and clenching his fists. The hug that follows almost crushes me. ‘You’re a good coach. You and your mate Jung.’
‘Ha, no charge,’ I say, ‘apart from the usual massive charge, of course.’ In the distance the squirrels scamper away. The winter sun goes behind the cloud and the turtle is unencumbered by shadows once again. I notice him pinching himself on the hand.
He sees me watching. ‘I’m setting the trigger. I seem to have felt bad for a very long time and it’s good to experience another emotion.’
I pinch myself, hardly able to believe I pulled this off. A degree, a diploma, some work experience at a Harley Street therapist’s and a Twitter account does not equip you for dealing with real people and their fragile emotions. I purse my lips. ‘You know the crane and the turtle aren’t the top attraction in this park?’
At the children’s playground, a concrete sculpture invites play. ‘This is Mount Fuji. Japan’s sacred mountain. It’s also an ace slide.’ I climb the ladder and sit on the top, leaving him on the rungs below. ‘I read somewhere Mount Fuji is a female god. If people climb it, they are reborn. So, I’ve led you to the sea and now to the top of a mountain in search of sorting out your miserable face.’
He laughs, pushes me down the slide and launches off the top. ‘Take two?’ he says at the base.
‘No way. There’s an old Japanese saying that a wise person will climb Mount Fuji once in their lifetime, but only a fool would climb it twice.’
Chapter 31
Could there be anything more joyful than organising a local fair that’s all about happiness? Yeah, quite a lot actually. I spent the eve of the event putting together a new panel of experts and trying to source stallholders. After firm assurances from writers, mindfulness coaches and spiritualists that they were primed and ready to go, several phoned to cancel. How can a rune witch not see an imminent childcare crisis on the cards? How has everyone developed flu at the same time?
Joe gives me a lift to the hall early with my banners and A boards. A problem with the keypad means I’m on the back foot immediately. After a frantic call, the caretaker lets me in and helps me put out the tables and chairs. As we work, I find myself praying people will come. I’ve been posting it on all my channels for weeks with a paid boost and put it in all the local Facebook groups I could think of. In the early planning stages, I intended to charge on entry. I later changed it to free entrance and now I’m not even sure the lure of biscuits and a raffle is enough.
I wanted a winter Moomin-style atmosphere. Closing the curtains and placing tea lights everywhere does not create it and may well violate the hall’s insurance. I don’t light them till after the caretaker leaves. The warmth was undermined further by the heating failing to fire overnight. But stallholders are trickling in. A woman called Sapphire brings tarot packs to sell and sets up a life-coaching corner. The cards are beautiful– I could spend all day looking at them. The local toy seller has brought some eco-friendly toys that he assures me make everyone happy. ‘How are they eco-friendly?’ I ask him, picking up a revolving child on a swing that looks one hundred per cent plastic.
‘She is playing outdoors,’ he says.
And how do they make people happy?
‘It’s a swing! Seven ninety-nine. Five colours.’ He turns on the swing and it pushes from side to side. A child sings something, in Chinese, I think. ‘I also have balls on strings to punch when you are irritated. We are all children at heart.’
I’ve filled the rune witch’s slot with a woman selling mood soaps and next to her is the Vic’s Vibellations stall. Theories about bodily vibrations from new age and wellness practitioners are commonplace but Vic is the only man I know who has centred his philosophy around hand bells. He’s brought dozens of packs of those little coloured bells that primary schools use in assembly. And the round-faced, parka-clad man who looks like Mr Poppy is asking people to ring them and see which vibrations tune into their emotional frequency.
I pick up a red bell and tinkle it. ‘It’s a nice sound.’
‘Irrelevant,’ he states, with the self-assurance of a solicitor. ‘You need to tune into your body and ring each one for five seconds or more. Find the frequency that blood pushes around your veins. Is your heartbeat sharp or is it flat?’ He picks up a bell. ‘Does your adrenaline flow like this? Or like that? Pick a bell.’ I do what I’m told and grasp a pink one. ‘Jealousy!’ he says.
‘Not guilty!’ I joke. I have a little tinkle of fear, hatred and contentment, before picking up one at the back. ‘Indifference?’
‘Insecurity,’ he says, staring at me as though waiting for a response.
‘I’ll take two,’ I joke.
‘Do you want them or not?’ he asks, unsure whether to bag them.
‘Maybe later.’
Thankfully, stallholders keep arriving and unloading their cars and the hall is starting to look quite full. The lotions, potions and soaps smell delicious, while a giant magic mood cube I rented is a colourful addition, projecting lasers onto the walls in the half light.
