Baron's Court, All Change Read online

  I don’t have to describe the other nine members to you individually, because although some of them were men and some women and some thin and others fat, really they were all the same. They were Spiritualists. If you haven’t met one of this clan before, let me explain to you that although when speaking on their subject they have a perfectly plausible explanation for the happenings, and speak intelligently and all that, you can’t help thinking that deep down inside they’re all completely mad. Not dangerous, but mad. Nevertheless, they were my people. We had been fortunate enough to have been shown this great truth and we were thankful for it. This was the answer to everything. Science and religion could walk hand in hand to save the world. That is why if anyone talks about religious maniacs, I never laugh. Religion is a great kick.

  As I entered, the eyes of the other members were upon me. I was the baby of the party, as it’s usual to start your development at about the age of twenty-five. Because of this everyone took a great interest in me, and I think they were a little proud of me as well. They were convinced that I possessed great psychic gifts, that in a number of years would be developed fully. They regarded me as something of a child prodigy.

  Although I met the same nine people every week for months, I hardly found out any of their names. With the exceptions of Mrs Diamond and of course Bunty, whom I knew then as Mrs Ryan.

  Mrs Diamond was our leader; she was a teacher, too, and instructed us into the secrets of mediumship. She was typical of one of those dear old ladies that you help across the road at Eastbourne. I expect she was a very unimportant member of the community until she stepped across the threshold of our society. But now she was the star; and like all stars she posed like mad.

  Bunty was different from the rest of the women and I think she was about the most unpopular. This chick didn’t fit in with the scene at all. She had some very weird looks given to her when she turned up at the meeting with make-up on. Her bleached hair didn’t help things either. That gave the old ladies of the circle plenty to talk about, but she didn’t seem to care. So did her clothes: her short skirts really got them at it.

  “It’s disgusting for a woman of her age to dress like that,” I overheard one old dear say to another. “She walks about like a teenager, and I’m sure she’ll never see thirty again.” I silently agreed with all that, except for the ‘disgusting’ bit.

  Each Tuesday when the circle finished, we all made a habit of going to the coffee bar which was just a few doors from the society building. There we would sit around and kid each other how well we were progressing, and while the juke-box blared and the teenagers sipped their Cokes, we’d talk about someone’s fat aunt who died fifty years ago.

  That particular night the ceremony of the developing circle took place. We sat around in a circle and Mrs Diamond opened the proceedings with a prayer. How that woman prayed! She managed to get her enormous body standing up, and with her eyes tightly closed and her hands clasped together, her deep and powerful voice would fill the room. “Oh Great White Spirit (meaning God), we await your heavenly spirit messengers to come to us this evening. For we know there is no barrier between heaven and earth, as love conquers all barriers...”

  We joined hands and sung hymns for a few minutes, so that the psychic power could accumulate, and then relaxed and meditated. Then a couple of the others whose development had reached an advanced state, went into trance. Their spirit guides (you might call them guardian angels) took control and spoke through them. This is a very strange sight indeed. As they are going under control their faces went through some peculiar contortions and their bodies would shudder a little. Standing up was a sign that they were well and truly ‘under’. Then their spirit guides would speak, using the medium’s voice, of course. For some unknown reason the spirit guide was usually a Red Indian or a Chinaman. Someone did tell me once that he thought this was because Red Indians practised some sort of mediumship when they were on the earth, so naturally they were best for the job. Next in line were the Chinese because there were some very wise ones amongst them. When I think back to what these wise old Chinese philosophers did say, I’m sorry to report that their conversation was very unwise indeed. Now I come to think of it, since then I’ve never heard a Red Indian or a Chinaman speaking with a French accent.

  I suppose you’re wondering by now what I did at these happenings. Well, I have to admit it was practically nothing, and it was because of this that I couldn’t understand why everyone took the interest in me that they did. They told me that although I was goofing the mediumship thing at the moment, the talent was there, and sooner or later it would show itself. I’d waited and waited for something to happen and I soon got the feeling that it was later, rather than sooner, when I would see all these spirits that the others were supposed to see. They had faith in this hidden talent of mine, so I took it that they knew more about these things than I did.

  Each week we took turns in closing the meeting with a parting prayer. It was my turn that week and I dreaded it. On my previous attempts to pray in public I’d always dried up halfway through and felt a real schmock. This week I wasn’t going to take any chances, so I learnt a prayer off by heart from a prayer book, did a Laurence Olivier, and it went down big. Mrs Diamond congratulated me afterwards, telling me she saw a nun guide (another firm favourite with them) behind me, inspiring me what to say. I was tempted to tell her I hadn’t received my inspiration from a nun guide from the spirit world, but that I’d stolen it off some west country vicar who was still very much alive.

  We must have looked a strange party on our way to the coffee bar. Led by seventeen-stone Mrs Diamond, followed by myself, six foot and thin, in front of a collection of characters that could probably earn themselves a place in the Chamber of Horrors, and in the rear there was Bunty — who could have stepped out of the cover of one of those sexyfeeling-making publications.

  For some reason or other the coffee bar was closed, so we decided to skip the coffee orgy until the following week. I walked a couple of hundred yards down the road to catch my bus home, and as I was nearing the bus stop I heard the delicious sound of high heels behind me. I turned around (I can never resist it!) and it was Bunty.

  Across the road Mrs Diamond and the medium of the unwise Chinese philosopher were standing at the bus stop, and when they saw Bunty’s tight skirt running towards me they shook their heads in disapproval. Jealous bitches! Just because their tight skirt days were over. She was now next to me and said, “Just take a look at those two over there. What’s the first principle of Spiritualism? The brotherhood of man, isn’t it? By the looks they’re giving me they want to practise what they preach.” I glanced across the road pretending that I hadn’t noticed them before. She pushed back the mop of blonde hair that was falling over her face and continued, “I’m so disappointed that the coffee bar was closed as I do look forward to our little chats every week. Why don’t you pop back to my flat, which is just down the road, and have coffee there? My car’s just around the corner and I can easily drop you home afterwards.”

  As we made our way to the car, two pairs of eyes were watching our every movement. I wondered if the unwise Chinese philosopher objected as well.

  She lived in a large block of flats, and as we entered a uniformed night porter gave her a very pleasant “Good evening”. She mumbled something to me about her wanting to move down to the ground floor as we entered the lift. At the third floor we got out and walked along a passage which smelt of floor polish, and arrived at a door that had on it a neatly printed notice with her name on it.

  As we entered the flat the smell changed from floor polish to perfume. It was dimly lit with concealed lighting and it was quite obvious from the start that she was proud of her home. She gave me a conducted tour of the whole place, which consisted of two bedrooms, a lounge, kitchen and bathroom. Every now and again she would tell me how much she paid for something or other, and I could tell she wanted to impress me. She did as well. My sixteen-year-old mind really lapped ever
ything up. Two different coloured walls; pink and lavender, well, that was really something. Contemporary furniture — man, this is living. The radiogram! Black and gold. She must be a millionairess! Even a real chandelier. (Yes, I did say contemporary furniture!) Her proudest possession was a large and colourful abstract painting, which she gazed at as though she was hypnotised, with her eyes half closed. When I asked her what it was supposed to be, she gave out with a very complicated spiel, with such words in it as aesthetic, action and texture, which I didn’t understand at all. This really sounded gone to me, but I nodded as if I understood. She must be a real intellectual, I thought.

  I sat down and did a lot of thinking while she went into the kitchen to make the coffee. Why didn’t my father have different coloured walls, contemporary furniture, a black and gold radiogram and a real chandelier? He could afford them, so why didn’t he have them? The answer was simple. He preferred his flowered wallpaper and dark oak three-piece suite because everyone else had them. Like a flock of sheep they copy everyone else. Why wasn’t there more Mrs Ryans in the world? I made up my mind I must be very careful what I said to her; most important of all, I mustn’t sound childish. She treated me like an adult so I had to act like one.

  She came in with the coffee and sat next to me, looking in my face as though I was the most interesting person in the world. “This is better than that old coffee bar, isn’t it?” she said. I agreed. Man, this was a lot better. This was me. I felt really at home here.

  Keep the conversation going, I thought. “Have you been a Spiritualist long?” I asked.

  “On and off for years,” came the reply. I didn’t dig this at all. Either you were a Spiritualist or you wasn’t, so I asked her what she meant. Her reply surprised me. “It’s like this. I’ve always been interested in seances and things simply because they’re different from the everyday happenings. I get very bored with life and people. When I look out of my windows on to the street below, all I see are lines of men with bowler hats and briefcases and women carrying shopping and pushing prams, and I could scream. Everyone wants the same things out of life and they’re always the most uninteresting things. That’s why I like Mrs Diamond and that crowd. I know they hate me but that doesn’t matter. At least they enjoy themselves in a different way to everyone else.” She paused for a moment to have a look at her painting, then: “No, I’m not a Spiritualist in the true sense of the word. I’ve nothing against them for believing in it, and I’m convinced they’re sincere, but I think all these spirits are a figment of their imagination.”

  Bewildered by all this, I asked, “But why do you go to the meetings?”

  “Because the whole set-up is so interesting. Here are these very ordinary people living in a world of sciencefiction. And they’re sincere — that’s the most important thing. Even that Mr what’s-his-name who has that Red Indian guide speaks through him, really believes that Chief Thundercloud, or whatever it is, really exists.” She gave a searching look into my eyes. “I expect that you’re disgusted with me now,” she said, looking like a guilty little girl.

  I didn’t dig the scene completely, but I looked as if I did. But as her words buzzed around and started to register in the old thinking box, I began to understand what she was getting at. Perhaps I wasn’t a true Spiritualist either, and the more I thought about it the more convinced I was that really my interest in it was for the same reason as hers. Yes, man, of course. It was my own personal little dream world, where I could hide away from all those ordinary things like selling hats and going to the Palais and...

  She must have been reading my thoughts, because she said, “That’s why I took an instant liking to you. I knew you always felt the same as myself. That you were in all this for amusement and not for salvation or to get in contact with some great aunt who died years ago. I could probably tell you more about yourself than you could tell me, because I’ve observed you closely these last few months. I’d bet anything that you’re bored with people of your own age as I am with people of mine. That you want to escape from those football and pop singer lovers that surround you in the local youth club. But where are you to go and hide from them? If you think that trying to break into the adult world will do you any good, then, my friend, there’s a terrible surprise in store for you. For no sooner than you’ve arrived in the so-called adult scene, you’ll find that you’re right back to where you started, because in that world they’re as big a bores as they were in the world you’ve just left.” She paused to light a cigarette, then: “But don’t despair, there is escape, simply because, thank God or the Devil, there’s other people in this world that think like us, and together, like a secret society, we make our own world. You’re already in that society in a way because you attend our dearly beloved Spiritualist Church. But that’s just the start. There’s a hundred different paths to travel that have nothing to do with crying babies, football pools, watching the tele, and Saturday night at the local.”

  I sat back taking in these words like wine. It was like a sermon that hit right at the truth, or a head shrinker that had really got to the bottom of your problem, because he’d found out the cause of your madness, but even more important, was offering you a cure as well. The more we talked the more we seemed to have in common. She even had sounds in the gaff, too. A fair sprinkling of all the names, but Diz and Kenny Graham with their Afro stuff seemed to be favourite. It wigged her like mad to know that I was already on the Jazz scene. It’s the only music that I’ve ever been enthusiastic about. Ever since I heard Tito Burns’ Bebop Spoken Here (which is now very unhip, but at least it was a start) on a jukebox in dear old Canvey Island, I decided that, at last, I was interested in music.

  For those amongst you who do not care, or haven’t bothered to care about Jazz, all I can say is that you’re missing a great deal out of life. I suppose the highbrow stuff is satisfying to a degree, but the thing is, you know what’s coming next. In Jazz, most of it’s improvised, dig? And you never know what’s up the musician’s sleeve. He takes you into his own world, and through the sounds that he blows, tells you all about himself, and when you can manage to get on his plane, there’s hardly a kick to beat it.

  Before long the weird mixture of Jazz and Spiritualism took up all my spare time. One night it would be a Jazz Club, the next a Spiritualist meeting.

  I realised sooner or later Bunty was going to ask me what I did for a living, and when telling her I would be embarrassed. I shouldn’t be, I thought; she’s an understanding person, but I still wished that the way I earned my bread was a little more romantic. Just as I was thinking of the best way to tell her, she came out with it.

  “What do you do for a living?” she asked, without any warning.

  “I sell hats,” I stammered, watching her face for the reaction. It wasn’t good.

  “Sell hats?” she said, looking horrified. “Do you mean to tell me that an intelligent and gifted young man such as yourself is wasting his time as a shop assistant?”

  What did she expect me to be, anyway? An arctic explorer or an M.I.5 agent? But still I could feel myself blushing and I wanted to get away from her and her flat. I suppose she was trying to give me a boost, but she was doing just the opposite. I felt really brought down. I felt like kicking her in the teeth and telling her that being a shop assistant wasn’t the end of the world, and to mind her own bloody business.

  “I don’t intend to keep at it. I’m looking for something better all the time,” I said weakly. This didn’t sound very convincing, but at least it was something to say.

  “We’ll have to see what we can do about that later on,” she said, sounding concerned.

  Icebergs went on the atmosphere for a few minutes after that, because she tumbled that I didn’t like her reaction to my working scene, but she soon got things swinging again. In fact she should be awarded an Oscar for the number one swinging atmosphere-maker.

  I was getting a bit nervous about the time, as I couldn’t see a clock about the place and I didn’t p
ossess a watch myself. You see, my mother liked to go to bed early, and as she wouldn’t let me get my hands on a key, she’d have to wait up for me if I was late in. That didn’t wig her at all. After opening the door for me, she’d turn straight around, walk hurriedly back to the sitting-room, and plant herself on her favourite armchair. This was your cue to follow her into the room, and I usually stood at the door. Then she’d say, of all things, “So you’re in then?” What else could you answer but “Yes”? Then, living up to her reputation as the world’s most talented worrier, she would relate to me the thousand and one things that she thought had happened to me. Everything from being run over by a bus to being murdered by an escaped lunatic from the asylum which was near our home. But dig this: this wasn’t an act, but the real thing. She really did believe what went through her morbid imagination.

  “Would you like a drink?” Bunty asked.

  “No thanks, I’ve already had two cups.”

  She smiled at me sympathetically. “No, silly, not coffee, a real drink.”

  She opened the cocktail cabinet, which was far from empty, and asked, “What’s it going to be?”

  I’ve never been interested in the lush, even to this day. At that time I’d hardly ever had a drink at all, with the exception of the occasional glass of cider with some cats from the Jazz Club, and that was only to appear hip, as the Vintage Merrydown was the drink of all the sharp ones in Town. Once I had too much of that, and had to quickly alight from the tube train about three or four times on my way home, in case I spewed all over the other passengers.

  “Anything will do. Whatever you’re having,” I answered in my most adult voice.