[2003] LOSS & PORPHYRY the novels  

0011 – Part 6 – Telepathy on the Way back from Paris 1977  

In the car, alongside me, Pat was avoiding the tedium of the journey back from Paris by the simple expedient of sleeping through it. But in the backseats the children's boredom had reached breaking point, and the dark mutterings from that direction indicated that mutiny might be about to break out. It had been inevitable that the stock of adult designed games, most notably chess and travel Scrabble, had been cast aside in the first few minutes of the journey; dismissed as boring. But, after almost two hours of travel, even their own peculiar games, which were deliberately unintelligible to adults, had become jaded.

With a sinking feeling, I realised I had better attempt to deflect the threatened uprising: "What have you been reading recently, Sarah?"

Her reply was instantaneous. She had inherited not a little of my own considerable intelligence. "I've been learning all about the supernatural."

"Oh, I like ghost stories too." I was well aware, and proud of, her voracious appetite for books. I also knew that this hunger had raced far ahead of her years. But even I was now somewhat startled at her next reply.

"I'm not talking about silly stories. I gave those up long ago. I have been reading the true facts!" Her scorn was palpable. It was true that she liked to think that she had now moved beyond childish books; those that merely offered cheap thrills. In reality she did still indulge in them, for pure entertainment, but it was a distraction that she hid rather than boasted about. "You would be surprised how many strange things are actually true. There have been lots of examples of people telling the future. Nostradamus, for example, predicted both the French Revolution and the assassination of President Kennedy."

My immediate instinct was to dismiss such fantasies. I had spent three long years studying Physics at Imperial College. That experience had taught me two things. The first of these was that I was no scientist, as my subsequent career proved. The second was that true science was as much about understanding the limits of your knowledge. I fervently agreed with Karl Popper's dictum that nothing could be proved, but only falsified. To that extent, I should not have dismissed the supernatural out of hand. But I was as exposed to the prevailing prejudices as my contemporaries. What is more, I had briefly looked at the work of Nostradamus, and had decided that the confusing stanza's were deliberately designed to mean all things to all men. It was possible to conjure almost any meaning out of those artfully tumbled thoughts. It was not surprising that hindsight had allowed some of them to be fitted to the subsequent facts. I was, accordingly, just about to deride the subject when I remembered who my audience was. I was convinced that I was a poor father, and Pat had often told me so, spending too much time on my work and too little on my children. But I took my role seriously and, in common with a generation of parents addicted to the teachings of Dr. Spock, I knew you should never trample on the sensitive creative feelings of the young. So I metaphorically bit my tongue and instead asked a further, blandly supportive, question: "Is it possible, then, for us to experience such things?" Of such an innocent response was the future created.

"I don't know about telling the future. I think you need to be able to use Tarot cards for that. But people say that telepathy is easy." Her enthusiasm was infectious.

I felt myself becoming almost willing to accept the paranormal. My mother certainly did. She often, too often, told the tale of how she had left me, when a young child, with a friend. On the way back to pick me up she had suddenly become aware that I was calling her. At that time, still more than a mile away, my young self had burned myself on the cooker and was crying for my mother; crying which had suddenly stopped with my pronouncement that everything would be alright since my mother would be there in a few minutes, which duly happened to the amazement of my mother's friend. It was a story that I had come to find, largely by reason of its unwonted repetition, somewhat embarrassing. Telepathy was, thus, something I had not previously considered. "How come?"

"All you have to do is to think of as picture, and then the other person has to describe it. Why don't we try it?" Sarah had found her diversion, a perfect way to while away the tedious miles that still lay ahead. I could tell, from the grunts of approval, that she also had Miles' support; even if his expression of this was less eloquent.

Alongside me, Pat had at last woken from her slumbers. As was frequently the case, she had missed the beginning of the conversation. But she was soon able, from long practice, to appreciate what the theme was. She, like her daughter, was wont to think that she was more artistic, more sensitive even, than me. In such a perspective the supernatural came into her territory, so she too welcomed the suggestion.

I was, not for the first time, aware of being outvoted. But at least the decision had resolved the threatened mutiny. There was no longer any evidence of incipient boredom, as the other occupants of the car settled down to enjoy their sport. I supposed I had better play my part: "Alright then, but let's do it properly. You and Miles draw a picture, so we know exactly what you are trying to send; and for goodness sake do it quietly so I can't hear what it is."

Even with that warning there was still a great deal of noise and hilarity emanating from the rear seats; though it was obvious that both the children were being careful not to mention the subject of the drawing that Sarah was creating.

Now it was my turn to hurry things along: "Come on. It doesn't have to be a work of art. Just keep it simple. Say when you are ready, and then concentrate hard on the picture."

"We're ready!" It was Miles, determined not to be kept out of this new game, who signalled the start.

I had become so involved in the game that I hadn't thought out its full implications. I hadn't considered the practicality of the game. How could I give my concentration to the picture, which was even now being transmitted to me, while I was driving? For the next few miles I tried everything. I screwed up my eyes, so that the view ahead almost disappeared. I defocussed them, for a few moments, so that the view became just a blur. But nothing came. In any case I simply didn't know what I ought to expect. Should I be looking for some blinding flash, or should I be searching for something skulking around the edge of my vision. I finally had to admit defeat: "The only thing I can think of is a keyhole." That was the only oddball thing that had come into my mind, despite my exertions.

"Wrong! It was a fish!" Again it was Miles who boomed out the verdict. I had expected no other result and relaxed again. In reality I was somewhat relieved. I didn't know what I would have done if I had succeeded.

"Let me have a look at the picture." This time it was Pat, checking that there had been fair play.

"It's alright mum," Sarah was passing across the scrap of paper that was the evidence, "it really was a fish."

Pat carefully examined the offending object, turning it to and fro. "It's not as easy as that to dismiss it. If you turn the picture round it could just as easily be a keyhole."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that it was, indeed, only the simplest of outlines of a fish; much like that used as a symbol by the early Christians. If it was stood on its tail it very easily became a keyhole. I felt a shiver run down my spine. Surely telepathy could not be that easy! It must have been a pure accident.

By now both Sarah and Miles were noisily demanding their picture back. "We'll draw another one." Sarah was in control again, and very soon had another picture drawn.

This time, perhaps because I knew that there was no special technique and was accordingly more relaxed, I had no difficulty in deciding what the picture was. As soon as Sarah had decreed that they were ready, an image of a dog rose, that familiar five petalled flat flower, flashed into my mind. With it came an intangible sense of history, of the Yorks and Tudors, with which the rose was associated. It was unmistakable, and I immediately called it out: "A rose, a simple rose with five petals." The cheers from the back seats told me that, this time, I had achieved a bull's eye.

Carried away by the excitement, the four of us continued this fascinating new game, untroubled by its implications, as our estate-car ate up the miles to the coast.

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