I turned into Terrace Road at the point where Eeyore said the trams once turned. At the far end of the street the railway station sat blocky and angular, as if built from giant sugar lumps. It had a lemon tinge in the afternoon sun. Everyone travelled by tram in those days and there is no great mystery about how an envelope could acquire that distinctive scent. And yet, my inexplicable contention that it reminded me of the mother I never met is not undermined by this.
There were still a few children playing in the paddling pool. They ran back and forth in the limited confines of the blue-tiled rink, like dogs in a wood, insane with a joy invisible to the rest of us; an ecstasy that seemed to express nothing more than the uncontemplated joy of existing.
Light, scent and music are the keys to the hidden chambers of our hearts. A musical phrase, a few bars of a song that played every day on the radio unnoticed during a forgotten period of our lives. The scent of ointment from the back of a drawer, or sunlight on the afternoon sea, late in the season as today. Sometimes the water scintillates like a shattered mirror; sometimes the light dances like moonlight on a pelt; at other times, when there is no breeze, the surface of the sea appears vitrified, a syrupy sea of molten glass with that same pale green translucence to be found in bottles of Victorian lemonade.
He said it was His human condition that let Him down, but where would I be without it? Sitting in an empty office staring at a client chair that was covered in cobwebs. It’s the engine that drives everything. Though every case is different, really every one is a symptom for the same underlying malaise. In a world where the churches are locked people go to the doctor but all she does is give them bottles of pills and after a while, when the joy begins to pall, they can’t help noticing the void in their heart has not been filled. At such times, they go to the witch doctor; his name is Louie Knight. It can be a risky policy sometimes. He’s careless with his clients – the Chief of Police called him the undertaker’s friend – but he knows a secret that is not vouchsafed to a great many people; it’s a secret revealed to him in a story he once heard about the convicts from a penal colony in Siberia surviving twenty years’ hard labour and dying of a cold two weeks after their release. The secret is this: don’t look down. It’s like those animals in cartoons that run off the edge of a cliff and carry on running. They are fine until the moment they look down. Vanya had always known the quest was futile but he also kept that knowledge secret from himself. That is a marvellous trick. Maybe, too, this was what God was trying to tell me about Sadako and her origami cranes; it wasn’t about whether it worked or not, the mere act transcended such considerations. This is the medicine they buy from Witch Doctor Louie. It’s called Ampersandium. It’s not perfect, but it works as well as anything can. The alternative is to be like Mrs Mochdre and spend the rest of your life pickled in sourness and your own bile.
I missed Vanya. Of all the clients who had sat across the desk from me, he was one of the very few I actually liked. I grieved for him, but I didn’t kid myself I could have saved him and because of that I know the pain will fade. I grieved for Arianwen too and with her I am not so sure. Despite all the comforting words people give me I know in my heart her death was my fault. I should have foreseen it. That’s what I get paid for.
I don’t know whether Old Barnaby killed Goldilocks and his sister, and really I don’t care. As a witch doctor it’s not my job to tie up all loose ends, that’s what cops are for, and even they understand that sometimes ends are best left untied. If Goldilocks and his sister really are in the foundation of the dam they are probably better off. Life didn’t deal them much of a hand; sometimes life doesn’t and there is nothing in all the world you can do about it except play with what you’ve got or quit the game. Now they are at peace. And they have a concrete headstone provided by the Corporation, which is more than most people get; the biggest ever, too; not even Barnaby will get a bigger one than that.
Calamity was waiting on the platform holding a small package wrapped in newspaper. She grinned at me and I did not need to ask how she had got on with her errand, the glee burning fiercely in her eyes already told me. I reached out and tousled her hair, aware of an upsurge of love in my heart. I made a mental note that if she ever wanted to start out on her own again I would definitely stand in her way. Calamity’s place was in my office, because sometimes even witch doctors get sick.
We walked down the platform to where an old lady stood waiting with a small suitcase at her feet. It was Ffanci Llangollen, the singer who once made a trademark of singing about how it would be a lovely day tomorrow. When a great tragedy struck she went on the road and continued to sing, travelling on nothing but the fuel of hope. We greeted each other. Clasped under her arm was a folder from Mooncalf Travel, covered in the stickers of the grand hotels and the railway companies and shipping lines. We told Ffanci we were sorry about the loss of her sister and she thanked us graciously.
‘No shopping trolley,’ I said with the deliberate banality that sometimes helps us through the difficult moments.
‘They don’t allow them on the Orient Express, so Mr Mooncalf was kind enough to give me this nice suitcase. I feel just the part now, like a dowager. He’s been ever so helpful, gave me the tickets gratis on account of my recent . . . misfortune. He wished me luck on my quest. He mentioned you: said you seemed to have got a wild fancy into your head about the tickets he gave you last time. He seemed quite put out about it. A simple oversight, he said, which you have misinterpreted out of all proportion. You will go and make your peace with him, won’t you?’
‘We’ll go directly after seeing you off.’
She smiled and waved something which she was clutching in her hand. It was a talisman.
‘A ticket to Hughesovka,’ I said.
‘Not just there but all the way to Vladivostok if need be.’
‘It’s a big continent.’
‘I know. I once met a man who surveyed it and told me it was as wide as the human heart. I have never given up hope. And I never will as long as my heart beats. This isn’t just a ticket to Hughesovka, Mr Knight, it’s a return – for two.’
Calamity unwrapped the newspaper package and revealed a little girl’s sandal. It had once been bright red but time and mud had now reduced it to the colour of burned umber. The guard blew his whistle. Calamity gave her the shoe.