Mr. Craze is back at the microphone. “This evening,” he announces as the many thousand take their seats again, “we are going to make a very daring experiment with the courage implanted in us by our late leader. We have with us a spirit sensitive who is going to try to give impressions from this platform. One reason why we hesitate to do it in such a colossal meeting is that it places a terrific strain on the sensitive. In an assembly of ten thousand people a tremendous force is centred upon the medium. Tonight, Mrs. Roberts will try to describe some particular friends, but it will be the first time this has been attempted in such a tremendous gathering. You can help with your vibrations as you sing the next hymn, ‘Open My Eyes That I May See Glimpses of Truth.’ ”
George has never been to a seance. He has never, for that matter, crossed a gypsy’s palm with silver, or paid twopence to sit before a crystal ball at a funfair. He believes it is all hocus-pocus. Only a fool or a backward tribesman would believe that the lines on a hand or the tea leaves in a cup reveal anything. He is willing to respect Sir Arthur’s certainty that the spirit survives death; perhaps, too, that under certain circumstances such a spirit might be able to communicate with the living. He is also prepared to admit that there might be something in the telepathic experiments Sir Arthur described in his autobiography. But there comes a point where George draws the line. He draws it, for instance, when people make the furniture jump around, when bells are mysteriously rung and fluorescent faces of the dead appear out of the darkness, when spirit hands leave their supposed imprint on soft wax. George finds this all too obviously a conjuring trick. How can it not be suspicious that the best conditions for spirit communication—drawn curtains, extinguished lights, people joining hands so that they cannot get up and verify what is happening—are precisely the best conditions in which charlatanry can flourish? Regretfully, he judges Sir Arthur credulous. He has read that the American illusionist Mr. Harry Houdini, whose acquaintance Sir Arthur made in the United States, offered to reproduce every single effect known to professional mediums. On numerous occasions he had been tied up securely by honest men, but once the lights were out always managed to free himself sufficiently to ring bells, set off noises, shift the furniture around and even engender ectoplasm. Sir Arthur declined Mr. Houdini’s challenge. He did not deny that the illusionist might be able to produce such effects, but preferred his own interpretation of that ability: Mr. Houdini was in fact the possessor of spiritual powers, whose existence he perversely chose to deny.
As the singing of “Open My Eyes” comes to an end, a slim woman with short dark hair, dressed in flowing black satin, comes forward to the microphone. This is Mrs. Estelle Roberts, Sir Arthur’s favourite medium. The atmosphere in the hall is now even more intense than during the two-minute silence. Mrs. Roberts stands there, slightly swaying, hands clasped together, head cast down. Every eye is upon her. Slowly, very slowly, she begins to lift her head; then her hands are unclasped and her arms begin to spread, while the slow sway continues. Finally, she speaks.
“There are vast numbers of spirits here with us,” she begins. “They are pushing behind me like anything.”
It does indeed seem like this: as if she is holding herself upright despite great pressure from several directions.
Nothing happens for a while, except more swaying, more unseen buffetting. The woman on George’s right whispers, “She is waiting for Red Cloud to appear.”
George nods.
“That’s her spirit guide,” the neighbour adds.
George does not know what to say. This is not his world at all.
“Many of the guides are Indians.” The woman pauses, then smiles and adds, without the slightest embarrassment, “Red Indians, I mean.”
The waiting is as active as the silence was; as if those in the hall are pressing upon the slim figure of Mrs. Roberts much as any invisible spirits are. The waiting builds and the swaying figure plants her feet wider as if to hold her balance.
“They are pushing, they are pushing, many of them are unhappy, the hall, the lights, the world they prefer—a young man, dark hair brushed back, in uniform, a Sam Browne belt, he has a message—a woman, a mother, three children, one of them passed and is with her now—elderly gentleman bald head was a doctor not far from here a dark grey suit passed suddenly after a dreadful accident—a baby, yes, a little girl taken away by influenza she misses her two brothers Bob is one of them and her parents—Stop it! Stop it!”—Mrs. Roberts suddenly shouts, and with her arms outstretched seems to push back at the spirits crowding behind her—“There are too many of them, their voices are confused, a middle-aged man in a dark overcoat who spent much of his life in Africa—he has a message—there is a white-haired grandmother who shares your anxiety and wants you to know—”
George listens to the crowd of spirits being given fleeting description. The impression is that they are all clamouring for attention, fighting to convey their messages. A facetious if logical question comes into George’s mind, from where he cannot tell, unless as a reaction to all this unwonted intensity. If these are indeed the spirits of Englishmen and Englishwomen who have passed over into the next world, surely they would know how to form a proper queue? If they have been promoted to a higher state, why have they been reduced to such an importunate rabble? He does not think he will share this thought with his immediate neighbours, who are now leaning forwards and gripping the brass rail.
“—a man in a double-breasted suit between twenty-five and thirty who has a message—a girl, no, sisters, who suddenly passed—an elderly gentleman, over seventy, who lived in Hertfordshire—”
The roll-call continues, and sometimes a brief description will draw a gasp from a distant part of the hall. The sense of anticipation around him is feverish and overwrought; there is also something fearful to it. George wonders what it must be like to be picked out in the presence of thousands by a departed member of your family. He wonders if most would not prefer it to happen in the privacy of a dark and curtained seance room. Or, possibly, not at all.
Mrs. Roberts goes quiet again. It is as if the competing babble behind and around her has also subsided for the moment. Then suddenly the medium flings out her right arm and points to the back of the stalls, on the other side of the hall to George. “Yes, there! I see him! I see the spirit form of a young soldier. He is looking for someone. He is looking for a gentleman with hardly any hair.”
George, like everyone else with a view across the hall, peers intently, half expecting the spirit form to be visible, half trying to identify the man with little hair. Mrs. Roberts raises her hand to shelter her eyes, as if the arc lights are interfering with her perception of the spirit form.
“He looks to be about twenty-four. In khaki uniform. Upright, well built, a small moustache. Mouth droops a little at the corners. He passed suddenly.”
Mrs. Roberts pauses, and tilts her head downwards, rather as counsel might do when taking a note from the solicitor at his side.
“He gives 1916 as the year of his passing. He distinctly calls you ‘Uncle.’ Yes, ‘Uncle Fred.’ ”
A bald-headed man at the back of the stalls rises to his feet, nods, and just as suddenly sits down, as if he is not sure of the etiquette.
“He speaks of a brother Charles,” the medium continues. “Is that correct? He wants to know if you have Aunt Lillian with you. Do you understand?”
The man stays in his seat this time, nodding vigorously.
“He tells me that there was an anniversary, the birthday of a brother. Some anxiety in the home. There is no need for it. The message continues—” and then Mrs. Roberts suddenly lurches forward, as if violently propelled from behind. She spins round and cries, “All
right
!” She seems to be pushing back. “All
right
! I say.”
But when she turns to face the arena again, it is clear that contact with the soldier has been broken. The medium places her hands over her face, fingers pressed against forehead, thumbs beneath her ears, as if trying to recover the necessary equilibrium. Finally, she takes her hands away and stretches her arms out.
This time the spirit is of a woman, aged between twenty-five and thirty, whose name begins with a J. She was promoted while giving birth to a little girl, who passed over at the same time. Mrs. Roberts is scanning the front of the arena, following the progress of a mother with a spirit infant in her arms, as she tries to locate her forsaken husband. “Yes, she says her name is June—and she is looking for—R, yes R—is it Richard?” At which a man rises straight up from his seat and shouts, “Where is she? Where are you, June? June, speak to me. Show me our child!” He is quite distraught and staring all around him, until an elderly couple, looking embarrassed, pull him back down.
Mrs. Roberts, as if the interruption has never taken place, so total has been her concentration on the spirit voice, says, “The message is that she and the child are watching over you and taking care of you in your present trouble. They are waiting for you on the farther side. They are happy, and they wish you to be happy until you all meet again.”
The spirits are now becoming more orderly, it seems. Identifications are made and messages passed. A man is seeking his daughter. She is interested in music. He is holding an open score. Initials are established, then names. Mrs. Roberts gives the message: the spirit of one of the great musicians is helping the man’s daughter; if she continues to work hard, the spirit will continue with his influence.
George is beginning to discern a pattern. The messages conveyed, whether of consolation or encouragement or both, are of a very general nature. So too are most of the identifications, at least to begin with. But then comes some clinching detail, which the medium will often take time searching for. George thinks it highly unlikely that these spirits, if they exist, can be so surprisingly incapable of conveying their identity without a lot of guessing games from Mrs. Roberts. Is the supposed problem of transmission between the two worlds no more than a ploy to raise the drama—indeed, the melodrama—until the culminating moment when someone in the audience nods, or raises an arm, or stands up as if summoned, or puts their hands to their face in disbelief and joy?
It could be just a clever guessing game: there is surely a statistical probability that someone with the correct initial, and then the correct name, will be present in an audience of this size, and a medium might cleverly organize her words to lead her to this candidate. Or it could all be a straightforward hoax, with accomplices planted in the audience to impress and perhaps convert the credulous. And then there is a third possibility: that those in the audience who nod and raise an arm and stand up and cry out are genuinely taken by surprise, and genuinely believe contact has been made; but this is because someone in their circle—perhaps a fervent Spiritualist determined to spread belief by however cynical a means—has passed on private details to the organizers. This, George concludes, is probably how it is done. As with perjury, it works best when there is a clever mixture of the true and the false.
“And now there is a message from a gentleman, a very proper and distinguished gentleman, who passed ten years ago, twelve years ago. Yes, I have it, he passed in 1918, he tells me.” The year Father died, thinks George. “He was about seventy-five years of age.” Strange, Father was seventy-six. A longish pause, and then: “He was a very spiritual man.” At which point, George feels his flesh begin to prickle, all along his arms and up into his neck. No, no, surely not. He feels frozen in his seat; his shoulders lock solid; he stares rigidly at the stage, waiting for the medium’s next move.
She raises her head, and starts looking at the higher parts of the hall, between the upper boxes and the gallery. “He says he spent his first years in India.”
George is now utterly terrified. No one knew he was coming here except Maud. Perhaps it is a wild guess—or rather, an exactly accurate guess—by someone who worked out that various people connected with Sir Arthur would probably be here. But no—because many of the most famous and respectable, like Sir Oliver Lodge, have merely sent telegrams. Could someone have recognized him when he arrived? This was just about possible—but then how could they have discovered the very year of Father’s death?
Mrs. Roberts now has her arm outflung, and is pointing to the upper tier of boxes on the other side of the hall. George’s flesh is throbbing all over, as if he has been thrown naked into a bank of nettles. He thinks: I am not going to be able to bear this; it is coming my way, and I cannot escape. The gaze, and the arm, are moving slowly round the great amphitheatre, holding the same level, as if watching a spirit form go questingly from box to box. All George’s rational conclusions of a moment ago are worthless. His father is about to speak to him. His father, who spent all his life as a priest in the Church of England, is about to speak to him through this . . . improbable woman. What can he want? What message can be so urgent? Something to do with Maud? A paternal rebuke to his son’s failing faith? Is some terrifying judgment about to fall on him? Close to panic, George finds himself wishing Mother were by his side. But Mother has been dead these six years.
As the medium’s head slowly continues to turn, as her arm still points to the same level, George feels more scared than the day he sat in his office, knowing that at some point a knock would come and a policeman would arrest him for a crime he had never committed. Now, he is again a suspect, about to be identified in front of ten thousand witnesses. He thinks he must simply rise to his feet and end the suspense by crying, “That is my father!” Perhaps he will faint and fall over the balcony into the stalls below. Perhaps he will have a seizure.
“His name . . . he is telling me his name . . . It begins with an S . . .”
And still the head turns, turns, seeking that one face in the upper boxes, seeking the glorious moment of acknowledgement. George is quite sure everyone is looking at him—and soon they will know exactly who he is. But now George shrinks from the recognition he wished for earlier. He wants to hide in the deepest dungeon, the most noxious prison cell. He thinks, this cannot be true, this absolutely cannot be true, my father would never behave like this, perhaps I am going to soil myself as I did when a boy on the way home from school, perhaps that is why he is coming, to remind me I am a child, to show me his authority continues even after he is dead, yes, that would not be unlike him.