Page 28 of Serenity Falls

I press my bracelet against the keypad and hear it click locked.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

9

Lockhart is an amiable and informative guide. We walk along Serenity’s sun-dappled avenues, past more pastel-painted mansions with green lawns and white picket fences. Brightly coloured flowers blaze from every side. Towering palms and other native trees provide intermittent patches of shade. Sprinklers sprinkle. Mockingbirds screech and caw.

A few residents are out pottering in sun hats and gardening gloves. Lockhart seems to know everyone and cheerily barks out ‘Good morning’, ‘Lovely weather’ and ‘Garden’s looking beautiful.’ I smile mutely, feeling like a performing chimp being taken out for a stroll.

‘Straight ahead you’ll see the town square,’ Lockhart says as we reach the end of another picturesque road. ‘We’ve been busy getting it ready for the fiftieth-anniversary celebrations in a couple of weeks. There’ll be a concert here, followed by a parade and a firework display. What’s more, the fairground will remain open till midnight!’

‘Wow!’ I say in a dutifully impressed voice.

We cross at a pedestrian crossing, and I stare around. To my left is what must be the town hall. It’s a large, red-brick building with wide stone steps leading to a grand, double-fronted entrance. A banner has been strung above the doors. Welcome to Serenity Falls – celebrating 50 blissful years – 1975–2025.

‘It’s the final weekend before school starts back,’ Lockhart continues. ‘So, a fitting end to the holidays. I’m sure it will be quite the spectacle. August ninth and tenth. Mark it in your diary!’

‘Definitely,’ I say, and I actually mean it. Could be fun, in a cheesy kind of way.

To our right is a bandstand adorned with red, white and blue bunting. Just past this is a large circular flower bed. The blooms have been planted to spell out Serenity 50. In the middle stands a statue of the man himself, Harold Winsom, looking cheery and suave in a suit and trilby, leaning on a walking stick and gazing skywards as if basking in his own reflected glory.

‘Isn’t that the same statue as in the park?’

‘An exact replica,’ Lockhart tells me.

‘Right.’

We walk up to it. The statue is life-size, and Harold Winsom wasn’t a small man, almost my height. I’d also wager, from photographs I’ve seen, he was a little larger around the waistline than his somewhat flattering bronze incarnation.

There’s a plaque beneath his feet:

Harold Winsom, beloved founder of Winsom Wonderland and creator of dreams.

Modest too, I think. Below this, there’s another line:

Fruere hora. Serius est quam cogitas.

VI XIII XXII

I frown. I’m not exactly fluent in Latin, but the phrase is familiar. I point at the plaque. ‘Do you know what this means?’

Lockhart bends slightly and squints. ‘Ah, yes. “Enjoy the hour. It’s later than you think.” Harold was someone who believed in seizing the day. Life is short, and so forth.’ Lockhart smiles, but it seems a little distracted. ‘Talking of which, we should probably move on. Lots to see.’

He starts to walk away. I pause, staring at the inscription and wondering what the numerals represent. It doesn’t feel like a positive mantra. More like a warning that time is running out – it’s later than you think.

Still frowning, I straighten and hurry after Lockhart.

Main Street is a bustling pedestrianized area lined with quaint shops with bright multicoloured awnings and cheery hand-painted signs outside. Tables and chairs are arranged in front of pretty-looking cafés. Everywhere is exceptionally clean. Melodic music, one of Winsom’s famous tunes, is being piped from speakers mounted on the streetlamps. It’s all very charming … and slightly surreal.

Harold Winsom has created a real-life version of Main Street in his famous theme park here in Serenity, and it’s like walking through a set. I can’t help feeling that if I peered behind the back of the shops I’d find they were nothing but facades, propped up by scaffolding.

‘We have everything here you could need,’ Lockhart says. ‘Local butchers, bakers, grocers, flower shops, lots of cafés, although I confess Millie’s is my favourite. Their iced mocha—’ He smacks his lips. ‘We also have a video-games store, bookstore, some lovely restaurants and a couple of bars – Grey’s and Flannagan’s Irish Bar.’

Of course. There’s always an Irish bar. If man ever makes it to another planet, I’m pretty sure they’ll find an Irish bar has got there first.

‘I bet that can get pretty lively,’ I say.

‘Not really. Curfew is at ten thirty every night.’