Page 45 of Dreams Come True at the Fairytale Museu
There’s something infinitely trustworthy about someone who isn’t afraid to make a fool of themselves to make a child laugh. He’s wonderful with kids, and it makes me think of the things he’s said over the last few weeks, about being bullied, losing his father at a young age, not having much of a childhood, and still feeling like a kid in adult’s clothing. There really is an inner child in there,screamingto get out.
‘Anyway, we just wanted to pass on our compliments and say thank you and keep doing what you’re doing, there’s not many places like this in the world, and it’s been a joy to find one. We’ll be back again very soon!’
The little girl choruses, ‘Byeeeeeeee!’ as they walk away, waving over her shoulder to Warren as he picks himself up off the floor.
‘You’re really getting into the swing of things here…’ I comment, leaving an open-ended space for a response.
‘I love it. I wish I could stay forever.’ He’s got a distant look on his face where he’s leaning on the counter with his chin resting in his hands, watching the woman meet her husband at the door and the little girl takes his hand too and swings between them.
‘Really?’
‘Ye—’ He realises what he’s saying and quickly corrects himself. ‘I mean, no, obviously. Just, er, winding you up. This is a job, just like any other.’
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt since opening this museum, it’s that this is a jobunlikeany I have done before, and if it is to end, it will be unlike any I might find in the future either.
The thought makes a sense of melancholy settle over me, and clearly unwilling to expand onanyof the things that have just happened, Warren busies himself tidying up the sketch papers still strewn across the counter. ‘So if you approve this design, I’ll get the logo scanned in and send you a useable image file, so you’ll always be able to use it after I’ve gone, and I’ll send you a link to the wholesaler’s website our company uses so you can pick the best products for the gift shop. On the map front, if I colourise this, scan it in, and scale it to the right size, it’s only an investment of forty quid to get a thousand of them printed as postcards, I’m happy to expense that, and if they’re popular then we’ll know it’s worthwhile. The map will be on the front, and I’ll design a back with the logo, encouragement to leave a review on travel websites and to come back again sometime.’
In the middle of his shuffling of the papers that he’s already reshuffled beyond any shuffling need, I reach over to grab his hand and give it a squeeze. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He hasn’t taken his eyes off the spot where my fingers are curled around his, and they twitch like he wants to squeeze them back, but he doesn’t, and enough time passes that it becomes awkward.
‘That was a reference to theMoanasong, right?’ I joke to ease the tension.
‘Hah. Good spot.’ He pulls his hand away from mine and shakes it like my fingers have squeezed too tightly, and then nods towards the stairs. ‘I should get back to the Tablet of Gloom. Er, I mean, vitally important piece of work equipment that I couldn’t do my job without. How have you even got me calling it that now?’
I can’t help laughing at how bewildered he looks. ‘The magic’s getting to you, Mr Berrington.’
‘Something is all right.’ He looks like he wants to say more, but his phone rings in his pocket and he pulls it out, looks at the screen, and puts it back in again. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him ignore his phone or the constant notification noises coming from his tablet lately, and I’m intrigued by what’s changed between now and the almost surgical attachment of a few weeks ago. ‘Do you need to get that?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He looks down at the pocket of his trousers like he’s contemplating it and then looks back up at me. ‘But I’m not going to.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’
He thinks for a moment and then grins at me and starts heading for the stairs. ‘I’m getting there.’
* * *
It’s not the last time I hear Warren’s phone ring. When the museum is quiet, the loud ringtone filters down through the floors, and I also hear how abruptly he shuts it off when he rejects call after call.
It’s a few days later and the museum is closed for the night. I don’t intend to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but he’s been upstairs all afternoon, and now I’ve shut the door to visitors, I’m on my way up to check in on him when I hear his phone ring again, and for whatever reason, this time he decides to answer it with a snarled, ‘What?’
I freeze on the spot halfway up the stairs. I hadn’t realised until this very moment that I’ve never heard him answer the phone before. He doesn’t talk on the phone, ever. He does absolutely everything by email, and hearing him answer is so unusual that it doesn’t occur to me that I shouldn’t be eavesdropping until it’s too late and I alreadyam.
I should turn and go back down the stairs, I know I should, but I’m intrigued by the fact he’s answered this time and by the razor-sharpwayhe answered, because Warren is a lot of things but rude isn’t one of them, and the temptation to stay put is impossible to resist.
‘Why are you phoning me?’ he barks, presumably into the receiver. ‘You know I’m useless on the phone, put it in an email.’
A pause. Of course, the problem with eavesdropping on phone calls is that you can only hear one side of them.
‘Yes, so I gathered,’ he says from upstairs. ‘Yes, I know it’s taking off, that was the point.’
A longer pause, peppered with noises of frustration on his part. ‘What?’
Another pause. Another, ‘What? Say that again?’
A, ‘Slow down!’
A muttered, ‘Well, that’s their bloody problem.’
