George has never been to a séance. 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 buffeting. 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 séance 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.