done enough walking for 1940.
Her ankle is puffy and swollen and bruised. She won’t let him touch it. How does she think she can walk on it? And his knee looks like her ankle.
“You’ve never seen Blackpool,” Mia says. “You told me you wanted to.”
“What’s the hurry?” says he, he! “Let’s go after Christmas. We’ll go when you feel better.”
“I feel okay now, let’s go.” She is determined not to let the day pass by.
They limp in the freezing foggy rain to the empty boardwalk. Holding on to his good arm, she tells him of summer days when the Ferris wheel spun and the music played. She tells him of Belle Vue Gardens and Fairgrounds, of the Captive Flying Machine, of Pleasure Beach and the plunge pool.
She worked at Fun Palace, she tells him, and always dreamed of going out to sea. They spot a rowboat below the boardwalk, moored in the wet sand. Taking the stairs (what a bad idea that is), they walk out to the shoreline and clamber into the boat. The tide’s coming in. “I loved spending my summers here,” Mia says. “I ran the Ferris wheel and the little go-carts, but my favorite was the Dream Machine.”
“Why?”
“You wrote a poem about it, you should know.”
“Which poem? Oh, yeah. Dreaming of the dream machine. I was making stuff up.”
“Well, it’s a real thing. It’s a wheel and you give me money and ask it a question, and then I spin it, and when it stops, you have your answer.”
“What kind of question?”
“That’s the part I liked best,” Mia says. “Hearing what people asked the machine.”
“They didn’t ask silently?”
“Not always. They asked if they would get married, or have a baby, or have another baby, or if he loved her, or if he really loved her, or if he liked her long hair, or if he thought she was too skinny.” Mia laughs. “For some reason the answer to that one was always yes! He always thought she was too skinny.”
“What about the men?” Julian asks. “They had no questions?”
“They did. Usually, they were quieter. One man’s wife was sick. He asked if she would get better and broke down before the wheel stopped spinning. And the wheel’s answer was, not in the way you want. That was awful. Some other ones, too. Will she still love me even if I never make more money? She said she could never marry a plumber, should I apprentice at the masonry guild instead? I did a terrible thing, will my best friend ever forgive me?”
Julian lowers his head. “What was the answer to that one?” he says. “Or do you only remember the questions?”
Mia admits she mostly remembers the questions. “And their faces as they walked away. They were either hopeful or crushed.”
“Okay,” Julian says, giving her his hand and struggling up. “The tide is high. Let’s go find this Dream Machine of yours.”
It’s Christmas Eve, 1940. There is not a soul around up and down the long wide boardwalk. It’s gray and misty, it’s about three in the afternoon. The sun is getting ready to set, the sky is heavy and darkening. The Irish Sea is black. The wind whitens the small angry waves as they break against the rocks and the wet pier.
They hobble to the amusement arcade at Fun Palace. The Dream Machine is usually wheeled out onto the promenade, Mia says. Not today. They find it in the back of the arcade, behind the billiards, looming like a huge roulette wheel, lonely against the back wall.
Julian stares at the possibilities.
Signs point to YES.
It’s time to settle your debts.
You may rely on it.
Don’t count on it.
Cannot predict now.
Better not tell you now.
Only if it will make you happy
Try again, outlook hazy.
Not in the way you want.
Follow your heart.
There’s nothing to worry about.
Nothing is impossible with God.
Julian stares at the last one the longest. It’s in the narrowest groove. The tongue of the wheel barely has width to lodge in it.
From his pocket he produces a Fabian coin and hands it to her.
“What’s that?” she says.
“A gold sovereign.”
Frowning a little, she stares at it in the palm of her hand, looking troubled. “It’s weird,” she says, “but why does it look so familiar to me? I must have seen it in a book or something.”
“Or something,” he says.
“It’s so shiny. How much do you think it’s worth?”
He shrugs. “Six hundred pounds.”
She laughs. “You are a real comedian. Why can’t you ever be straight with me?”
“I’m telling you