Strange Goings On

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Strange Goings On

In 1946, whilst waiting to be demobbed from the ATS, I attended a live-in educational course which was held in the former home of John Player, the Nottingham tobacco baron. Player's cigarettes helped calm the nerves of British troops and civilians alike throughout the war. We women soldiers were impressed with the house which, despite its sparse furnishing and lack of carpets, was so much grander than the army barracks we were accustomed to. The magnificent hall, with its huge fireplace and ingle seats inside the chimney, really captured our imagination, as did the fine staircase that led off it. It was easy to imagine Victorian ladies, in all their finery descending the stairs like Scarlet O'Hara in "Gone with the Wind".

Lectures were held during the day, our evenings were free. I don't know who suggested that we hold a `seance', but that is what some of us did one evening. We decided that the best place for this spooky business was the alcove next to the fireplace in the huge hall. It held a round oak table, just the right size for our shenanagans. I was sent to the kitchen to procure a tumbler whilst the rest scribbled letters of the alphabet on scraps of notepaper. The letters were placed in a large circle around the edge of the table along with the words `YES' and `NO'.

Once our cigarettes were extinguished we were ready to begin. We each leant forward and placed a forefinger on the base of the tumbler which stood up ended in the middle of the alphabet circle. Pam Stevenson took charge. Her father was Director of Education for Nottingham, and responsible for the course we were attending, so she felt it only right that she should be leader.

"Are you ready?" she asked. Heads nodded in reply. "Right, don't talk, and remember to keep your fingers on the glass no matter what happens."

Joan Higgins, a platinum blonde, who came from the East India Docks in London, gave a frightened giggle which we ignored. Joan suffered from nerves because she'd been buried alive in the Blitz. She and her grandmother were the only ones at home that night.. Her mum was on night shift at Woolwich Arsenal and her dad away in the Navy. When the sirens began their eerie wail her gran insisted that fourteen year old Joan crawl into the Morrison shelter. This was a sort of reinforced steel cage which sat in the cellar. The idea being that if the house was destroyed the steel cage would protect the occupants from falling debris. And that's what happened. Her gran, who felt it was beneath her dignity to crawl into anything, and who wasn't going to let Hitler scare her, remained upstairs and was killed in the explosion, but Joan survived. It took three long days for the rescue workers to dig away the remains of the house. Then when they found her curled up in a ball she screamed at them not to look, and to go away and leave her alone. You see, the blast had stripped off all her clothes leaving her naked as the day she was born.

"Oh, the shame of it," she'd say when she talked about it.

Pam was anxious to get started with the `seance'.

"Is there anyone there?" she called as we pressed our fingers firmly on the tumbler. It moved slowly at first, a little to the right and then a little to the left.

"Ooh," marvelled Betty Bot from Manchester.

"Shhhh," hissed Pam. She tried again, "Is there anyone there?"

This time the tumbler moved round and round the circle before it stopped at `YES'.

More oohs and aahs from everyone and more shushing from Pam.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Slowly the tumbler resumed it perambulations. This time it glided along until it touched "J" then on to "O" until finally it stopped at "E".

"Its name is Joe," chortled Betty Bot. "Joe Soap, I presume!"

"Shhh, don't mock it, and don't take your fingers off the glass," ordered Pam.

Off went the tumbler. This time it shot straight across the table to "NO."

"That's telling you, Betty," I laughed.

"I'm not sure whether we should be doing this, it might be the devil guiding our fingers." interrupted Pat, the Irish lass, as she blessed herself just to be on the safe side.

"It's you lot," said Betty, "you're all pushing, that's what's making it move."

There were angry shouts of denial to this charge.

"All right then, I'll ask it summat," said Betty. "Am I going to meet a find a decent boyfriend now the lads are coming home at last?"

The tumbler wasted no time as it slid across to `YES'.

"There you are," said Pam.

"Aye, but what's his name?"

It took a while for the tumbler to spell the word, but that might have been because "Christopher" contains a lot of letters.

"By Gum," said Betty, "that'll do for me. Where am I...."

"Let someone else have a try," interrupted Jean Stewart. Jean was a great believer in fair play, she'd even stood up to the staff sergeant once when she felt the duty roster was wrong.

"I've a question," said Pat. "Shall I be leaving for America soon?" She was married to a G I she'd met when she was stationed in Rome and she was waiting her turn to join a ship taking war brides to the United States. The Army would release her as soon as her visas arrived.

The tumbler travelled back and forth a few times before making up its mind to stop at `YES.' Jean grabbed Pat and gave her a hug.

"I'm so pleased for you," she whispered, "even though I don't understand how you can be happy to travel so far from your family. It wouldn't suit me, I'd miss my mum and dad too much too much."

Now there was no stopping us. Question after question was asked and the tumbler skidded around as if it was on ice skates. Most of the questions were daft and there was a lot of joking and laughter.

"Let's stop for a fag," suggested Joan, the only one who had remained silent at question time. So we gave the tumbler a rest whilst we sat and puffed at the filthy weed. Surely the most appropriate thing to do in the house of the great John Player.

"Do you think it really knows the true answers?" asked Joan with a worried look.

"Course it does!. "Old Joe here, knows everything," said Betty Bot giving the tumbler a tap.

"No I mean, seriously and honestly," said Joan.

"Well why not ask it something serious and see what happens," suggested Pam.

So as soon as our cigarettes were disposed of we we began again.

"Please," said Joan, "is my Arthur coming back?"

First the tumbler shot all over the circle, then traced every letter of the alphabet before finally coming to a halt at `NO'.

The silence that followed was shocking. We all knew that Joan's boy friend was `missing, presumed dead', and we also knew that she refused give up hope that he would one day be discovered in a prisoner of war camp.

"Don't let's go on with this," pleaded Pat. "Enough is enough. I think we're going too far."

We looked at each other not sure how to react. I could see that Joan's shoulders were rigid and that her hand resting on the tumbler was trembling.

Pam had noticed the tremor too. She looked at me and indicated this with her head. Then after a moment's thought she said,

"Yes, I think now's the time to stop."

"Please," begged Joan, who looked as if she was going to cry, "You've all had turns. Just one more question."

There was a collective sigh. We didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"Just the one then," said Pam.

"Where is Arthur now?" asked Joan in a hoarse whisper.

The tumbler retreated to the centre of the table then shot back to `NO'.

Pat yanked her finger off the tumbler as if she had been burned, and as she did so Joan cried out,

"Don't stop now, I must go on."

Once again fingers were pressed down.

"Is he with Gran?" asked Joan.

Pat gave a low moan. "Please stop," she begged.

"Where is he now?" shrieked Joan.

The tumbler began to move. Faster and faster it moved. It slid round and round the table like the ball in a game of bagatelle. Then suddenly it pulled itself out from under our fingers and flew through the air. It hit the side of the fireplace with a crack and shattered into a thousand pieces which rained down to the floor. The light reflecting off the jagged edges of glass formed a rainbow in the air as they fell.

Joan was on her feet so quickly that her chair overturned. Pressing her handkerchief to a small cut on her forehead she ran shrieking up the wide staircase to the bedrooms above. We gawked in in alarm as we listened to the echo of her feet as they thudded on the bare boards overhead.

I rushed to comfort Jean who had slumped across the table moaning. Pam was trying desperately to stem the flow of blood from a cut on the back of her hand whilst dear old Betty Bot attempted to restore order,

"Don't let this upset any of you. It's all a lot of nonsense. It doesn't mean anything. I'm sure there's going to hear some good news about Arthur one day soon."

Pat took out her beads, and oblivious to everyone else, began reciting a decade of the Rosary.

As for me, I wish to this day that we'd stopped when we should have.