The Wonderground

9 - The Wonderground

The six inched to the doors in disbelief. Elliot removed his glasses, rubbed them on his lapel and popped them back on his nose. The platform was bathed in bright light from all the wall lights, each one pulsing with power. Pools of light reflected along the length of the platform surface which was now restored with graphite and black tiles laid in a diamond design. The platform was clear of rubbish. Not a crushed Starbucks cup in sight. The cream and jade green tiled walls sparkled and matching pillars arched over their heads, creating a series of stripes that looked like oversized zippers. Between the arches, the ceiling of the space was finished with enormous stained-glass motifs, lit invisibly from above, depicting creatures of all sizes and shapes, deserts and mountains, oceans and forests. It was beautiful. And silent.

"Pretty good special effects for a ten quid ticket," uttered Charlie breathlessly. They stared at the transformation to the platform. How was this possible? The awed silence was punctuated by the large analogue clock which struck twelve reverberating chimes. Swinging below the clock face was a wide, shallow rectangle of ash-grey slate, hanging in its rightful, horizontal position. In neat handwriting, it clearly said 'TRAIN APPROACHING' in white chalk.

They heard raised voices coming from the small wooden hut at the far end of the platform. The shed was no longer in disrepair but painted bumblebee yellow and displaying window-boxes blooming with sprays of daffodils. A wisp of curling, violet smoke issued from the terracotta chimney. It smelled of blueberries. The hut's pan-tiled roof was covered with pieces of scrap metal pipes, springs, cogs, bicycle wheels and varying lengths of planks and driftwood. There was a pair of motheaten train seats, in faded velour cloth, propped up against the window-box. A long metal sign hung over the door that said:

MESSRS F & D COPPERCLOUD ESQ – STATION MANAGEMENT

DO NOT FEED THE STATION MANAGEMENT

The front door of the hut flew open and two tiny men appeared. Identical twins, no more than four feet tall. The only difference in their appearances was their beards. Both white as snow but, whereas one man sported a big and bushy mass, the other had twirled his into a pair of plaits. Between them, held aloft above their heads, was a paint-spattered wooden step ladder.

They were dressed alike. On their heads they wore wide brimmed bowler hats. Attached to the front of each hat, by a leather strap, was a miner's calcium carbide headlamp. They were smartly turned out in white linen shirts, each with a shamrock green silk cravat and waistcoat, pressed corduroy trousers, and polished shoes, although the laces had been replaced with string. They wore knee length, heavily stained, suede aprons that were covered in tools: hammers, screwdrivers, magnifying glasses, scissors, spirit levels and miniature blow torches. Plaited beard's apron even had a lemon squeezer dangling under his left armpit. The tools were arranged neatly and held in place through tiny leather loops sewn into the aprons. From their mouths hung long, curling pipes and both were puffing out doughnut-sized rings of bright pink smoke from the corners of their mouths.

They seemed to be arguing.

They erected the ladder underneath the slate sign and both tried to climb it at the same time, jostling and grappling with each other before eventually ending up together in a heap on the square tiles.

"We both know, brother," said the bushy bearded twin, trying to stand whilst simultaneously pushing the other's face into the platform with his foot, "that it is my turn."

"You are losing your mind in your old age, Fynsent," condemned the plaited bearded twin with a mouthful of shoe. "Friday departures are, always have been, and always will be, my department."

"I may be losing my mind, dear Dewlyus," countered Fynsent, finally standing upright. "But you must have lost your calendar. Today is Thursday!"

"Is it?" questioned Dewlyus from the floor. He rolled over onto his back, fumbled in the front pocket of his apron and pulled out a small, battered notebook.