Crystal Balls (5 page)

I have to say, I am really starting to enjoy myself now and you’ve got to hand it to them, they’re good, bloody good. If only I had their creative skills. Maybe I could learn a thing
or two here. But what strikes me as I watch these pathetic folk hand over their money is the complete lack of regulation. I mean, globally this must be a multi-million-pound industry, at least,
operating with no authority or governing body like most industries do. Who do you complain to if you get a dud reading? Merlin, Russell Grant, Mystic Meg? Also, how could you prove that the events
prophesied didn’t actually happen? Their defence is likely to be that while you are of this world, there is still time for these events to present themselves. How can you argue with that?
Perhaps on your deathbed with a professional medical assessment of only a few remaining hours you may have a case, but by that stage the collection of a refund less interest is hardly a priority.
Still, you could always get your revenge post mortem by rattling a few chains in the middle of the night, assuming of course they don’t hit back at you with psychic-presence-clearing or
exorcism rituals.

The visit is almost worthwhile simply to be in The Great Hall. Having frequented this place on numerous occasions it occurs to me that I have overlooked its splendour and ambience. Although
during those attractions, alcohol has been the star of the show, not the décor. The Royal Fort is distinctive in that part of its structure is early 19
^th
century, a former stately
home which suffered a series of bomb attacks during WWII. The property stood as a ruin for decades until a wealthy investor made an application to purchase the land with the intent of demolishing
its remains and building a modern hotel in its place. And with the enticement of job creation and a boost to the local economy, permission was granted, providing what was left of the Great Hall was
salvaged and made structurally sound with its original fittings preserved. Little else was in a recoverable condition. The Great Hall, given its sheer grandeur, has over the years become the venue
to host weddings, seminars and any other type of formal engagement. I can easily see why.

Venetian chandeliers, intricately designed with bronzed leaves and flowers and made from hand-blown glass, hang gracefully from elegant ceiling roses. The chandeliers are indeed a work of art,
flawless in brilliance and clarity with each stone cut to precision. Heavily patterned carpets cover the darkly polished floors. Plump-backed ottomans busy with oriental-bird displays clash
offensively with silk wallpaper bearing floral designs. The Victorian feel is so heavy on the eye that it’s almost blinding, but there is something about this room that can capture your soul
and hold it firmly, only releasing it once you begin to appreciate its eclectic values.

The place is steadily filling up and already small queues are forming. I am amazed at the amount of older people here. We’re talking fifties upwards. Would you not think at their time of
life they’d be fulfilled or at least have learned from their mistakes? And surely their life experience so far would have shown them enough to understand what they do and don’t want?
You’d think so, wouldn’t you?

A smartly dressed pensioner is buying a crystal. She passes it from hand to hand with such care and grace you would think it were a diamond. Her thumb caresses its ragged edges and she holds it
to the light for closer inspection.
Why on earth?
The stall sign offers:
Crystals To Lift Your Mood.
Why do they never offer “
Next Week’s Lottery Numbers
” or
“
How To Lose Weight by Eating More
”? They truly know how to lure us in.

What does occur to me is that while each exhibitor is quite individual in appearance, they all – apart from subject matter of course – have one thing in common. Each and every one of
them is smiling. I’m not talking a slight curvature of the mouth here, but a jubilant happiness which seems to exude from the depth of their soul. Could this be as simple as good customer
relations? Something we lack in this great country of ours. Or could it be an inner peace they share? Maybe it’s the pound signs? But whatever it is, job satisfaction oozes from these weird
folk and they certainly know how to put on a show without making it look remotely staged.

A clumsy tap on my left shoulder startles me and, as I turn to look, Chantelle childishly jumps out to my right.

“Gotcha!”

Why do I fall for it every time?

“Chantelle, don’t do that to me! I nearly jumped out of my skin,” I chide her. “I’m already on tenterhooks in case some other nutter tries to use me as a sales
prop!”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

She shakes her finger at me in a scolding manner. “Well, if you’d got yourself a reading while you were waiting, Tina, you might have known to expect it. You could have saved
yourself from a mini heart attack!”

I snort at the stupidity of it while Chantelle remains straight-faced.
She actually meant it! Crazy girl!

Today I see a totally different girl to the one I witness during office hours. She really is an immaculate dresser and, with her naturally petite frame, she manages to wear clothes effortlessly.
By day she power-dresses in suits, usually wearing tight skirts with sheer legs and high heels. But her extra-curricular attire demonstrates a totally different girl. Skinny jeans in dark denim
tucked into brown suede knee-boots wrap themselves around her slim thighs. A low-cut top clings to all the right places and stops at her narrow hips, inches from the curves of her dainty bottom.
Her long dark hair falls into loose silky waves and sits halfway down her back and she is without make-up as always. Suddenly, I feel a little frumpy. Don’t get me wrong, I still attract my
fair share of attention, but unlike Chantelle I can’t survive without St Tropez, hair-straighteners and my Urban Decay collection. She is a beauty au naturel while I invoke masses of effort
by comparison. But you simply make the best of the hand you were dealt. If Chantelle put on a quick coat of mascara and a dab of lip gloss, I swear she’d be kidnapped and put on the next
flight to Hollywood.

“What do you reckon then, Chantelle? Let’s have a good look around and make sure we pick a good one for you.”
That’s a euphemism for let’s get the hell out of
here.

The stands are positioned down each side of the massive hall, meeting in a V-shape below the only remaining stained-glass window. Its religious theme bears a host of angels watching over the
room with illuminating halos floating high and lighting the floor below as the sun shines through. I can’t see them being in favour of this myself. Theory has it that the art of seeing into
the future comes from a negative source, a link with Satan. I guess that will be one of those questions that will remain unanswered until we all move on to the angelic realm. Unless
Chantelle’s gran knows something for sure.

I follow Chantelle’s lead, watching with interest the sheer level of concentration on her face. There must be more than fifty to choose from. We pass by Breath Meditation, Metaphysical
Healing, Psychic Intuitive Techniques and a whole host of other bizarre stands with fancy names, conveying little indication as to their actual therapies. It would be interesting to learn what some
of these are about and where on earth they were invented but I’ll leave it to someone else to ask. If I keep my head down, I’ll serve my time quicker.

“I’m going to choose this one, Tina.” Chantelle stops assertively halfway down the first leg of our tour and points towards a stand decorated with blue curtains covered in
yellow moons and stars.

“Meridian Healing,” I read aloud. “Don’t you want to look at the rest of them first? We haven’t even covered more than a dozen.”

Moving towards the stand, Chantelle shakes her head. “I like the curtains. Simple as that. Every year I win on the Grand National by picking my favourite jockey outfit. Same rules apply
here.”

Not a smirk in sight. She is deadly serious. So am I – about getting her to put my bet on next year.

I stand back as she hands over twenty-five pounds to a spotty teenage girl.

“Won’t be long, love,” she assures her.

‘
Love’? She’s barely in her teens.

There isn’t much to this stand in comparison to the others surrounding it. A long pasting table has been hurriedly covered with blue crêpe paper and messily sellotaped down.
Promotional flyers are scattered about, in a deliberate attempt to cover the odd tear here and there, and a clipboard of names sits next to a small metal cashbox with some coins inside, sitting
open. How trusting. The cosmic curtains are the only obvious effort and even they don’t fully close over, leaving the participant in part view, much like women’s changing rooms.
Don’t you just hate that on a fat day?

The curtain is thrown back and a lady, mid-forties, steps out.

“Mam, this girl is next.” The girl gestures towards Chantelle who looks up eagerly. You can tell they are mother and daughter. A double-act. Two con-women for the price of one. The
mother, aka Rita, I note from the flyers, is built like a house and is dressed in a pair of jeans which she must have sprayed on, and a thick black polo-neck adding inches she simply can’t
afford. Rolls of fat protrude over her waistband. Her face, although filled out, is pleasant, with piercing green eyes as the focal point. Her chin plays host to its own family of chins and as the
surplus folds become smaller, the baby of the family sits alone, snuggled into her ample bosom. She sweeps her black hair back from her eye-line and looks kindly at Chantelle as she holds the
curtain open for her.

“Wish me luck.” Chantelle’s face is willing and pensive.

I smirk at her. “See you at the other side.”

She disappears behind the curtain, leaving me once more companionless amongst these non-starters.

“Sam, it’s me. How are you?”

Sam is my sister. We don’t speak too often these days as she ‘lives to work’ as a successful criminal barrister. Our sisterly social life has also taken a downturn since she
met Tim. A few months ago he moved into her apartment and I have barely seen her since.

“Tina, I was just about to phone you. That’s so spooky.” She makes a ridiculous ghostly sound.

Perhaps she should be here with Chantelle instead.

“I’m at Mum and Dad’s with Tim.” There is a moment of silence. “Oh, what the hell, I might as well tell you now!” She screams down the phone with pure
elation, “Tim and I are engaged! We’re getting married!”

I am speechless. My sister, the girl I used to have all to myself, is leaving me. I will never be her priority again.

“Oh Sam, I am so happy for you I could cry.”
Literally.
“Wow!” I struggle for the right words, trying to compose myself. “You guys are fast workers but
I’m made up for you, Sam.”

“Sometimes you just know, Tina.”

I wouldn’t, Sam. That’s always been my problem.

“I knew straight away but had to keep it quiet until I was sure he felt the same way.” She giggles. “That’s part of the reason you haven’t seen me for ages. I knew
I could keep how I was feeling from everyone else,” she pauses, “but not you from, Tina. You know me too well.”

I swallow hard, hearing such words from my big sister. My aspirational role model. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one. How soon can you get here? I’m desperate to see you!”

“I can’t wait to see you too, Sam.”
I really can’t. It’s true.
“Just let me finish up here and I’ll meet you at Mum’s as soon as I can get
there. Don’t you dare leave.”

“Where are you now?”

“Oh, just out with Chantelle.”

Now is not the time for a spiritual debate and, ever the lawyer, Sam likes a darn good debate. And always wins. She was always like that even when we were kids. She was captain of the chess team
and leader of the debate team while I shook pom-poms and practised the splits as part of my extra-curricular education. And look what good it did me . . .

“Congratulations again, Sam. I’ll see you shortly.” I blow kisses down the phone until she hangs up. I stand there, staring at the floor, stunned yet overjoyed, jealous yet
swollen with pride, but almost wishing that the phone call had been my imagination.

Sam was the one I would run to if I fell down. It was she who picked me up. Sam was the considerate sort who would buy gifts for our parents, always signing ‘
Love, Sam and
Tina
’, even though I was mostly oblivious to her efforts and was never asked to give a penny. Sam was and still is, the stable, wise daughter that most parents aspire to produce. I wish I
were like her, but I’m not. Sam and I have been chalk and cheese our entire lives. She was the brains and I, while not exactly the beauty, was the more attractive of us two. I busied myself
delivering all-singing all-dancing shows to family and friends, while Sam tucked herself away like a hermit, studying hard. It was no surprise that she was accepted to read Law and it was no
surprise to them that I chose to study Drama (to my mother’s delight, admittedly).

Now even my love life has taken second place to Sam’s. In reality, it has practically been non-existent for the past two years apart from the odd one-night stand here and there. But even
those have diminished lately, through my own choice. How embarrassing would it be to negotiate the property sale for a guy you had bagged after a drunken night out with the girls? No doubt
he’d be expecting some type of rate reduction as old pals!
Yeah, right.
As a respectable businesswoman, alleviating the risks to one’s reputation has its drawbacks. No sex.

The back of Chantelle appears through the gap in the curtains, snapping me aggressively from my sorry train of thought.

“Thanks very much!” I hear her say. The pitch of her voice is definitely higher than usual. She waves at the mother and daughter with gratitude before pulling me away from the stand
with urgency. Her slender fingers grip my arm.

“Oh my God, Tina!” she explodes. “She knew about my mother! That she had passed on when I was a child! How could she have known that, how, how?” She pulls me further from
the stand, her nails almost piercing my skin.