In the gardens of The Orangery is a large maze like structure. Maze like in the sense that it is, actually, a maze. Its walls are only about shoulder height, so you see right across its diameter. People are wondering around it, some looking down at their feet in encouragement, clearly leading young children through its various passageways.
You enter the maze, absent-mindedly making your way around. There are spooky gravestones over to one edge of the gardens, set in front of a railway viaduct. Yours eyes follow the bridge’s stone work and you realise you are about one hundred metres from the station where you first arrived.
Wakefield is such an odd
place. Here you are, walking around a modernist sculpture in the gardens of an
18th century Orangery, within stones throw of a train station, a
Unitarian Chapel (just over to your left) and – if you have a particularly
strong arm – the largest maximum security prison in Western Europe.
With little to no thought, you have found yourself at the centre of the maze, a space roughly four by four feet square.
There doesn’t appear to be much there, but then you spy a man sat in one of the corners. He is about 65, with stylish, slicked back silver hair. He is wearing a smart grey suit, with a crimson tie and brown shoes. He has his head in his hands.
You ask him if he is alright.
“I’m fine pal, don’t you worry about me” he says, hands still covering his entire cranium. Then he slowly removes his head and turns it towards you, his eyes sharply focussed on you.
“You here for the festival?” he asks, the beginnings of a smile emerging on the corners of his lips. You tell him you are. He stands and faces you, stood slightly too close.
“You don’t want to bother with that rubbish up there’ he sneers, gesticulating towards the city centre. “All them Runabout Kids and their ironic t-shirts. You want to see some real music don’t you? I can tell. You’re like me. A proper music fan. An admirer of the finer things in life, yeah?”
He dusts himself off and begins walking out of the maze, gesturing to you. “Come with me, forget about all that rubbish. Clive bloody Smith will show you something proper, show you the future.”