Jenny Telfer Chaplin

by Hopes

  Having made the effort to come from Glasgow to interview Mr McCaffrey, Ivy decided she might as well enjoy the experience. There was the luxurious ambience of the house, the novelty of being in the company of a man with such film-star good looks, and she might even enjoy a spot of harmless flirtation – especially with her divorce still being rather raw.

  Yes, she thought, I can play him at his own game. Psychic, my foot. Probably all a massive con – good for business. Tell people the hotel is haunted and you’ll have guests queuing up to book in. So far the only thing he has predicted is that he’ll be serving me coffee in this room.

  Mr McCaffrey re-entered with a tray which he placed on the table in front of the marble fireplace.

  “I’ve asked my housekeeper, Mrs Muir, to join us shortly when I’ll do a spot of trancing.”

  Trancing! Ivy thought. Chancing more like. Here we go. No doubt his housekeeper has to be on hand to help with setting the scene – spooky lights, elevating tables. Weird noises. Oh boy, I’m really going to get one hell of an article out of this. My editor will love it.

  But aloud she said: “I’ve never seen trance. It sounds an interesting concept.”

  If he had heard her, he totally ignored her comment and said: “Earlier I mentioned your Grandmother is here. She’s telling me ... your divorce was meant to be. He, your ex-husband, Alec, was holding you back ... a burden to you.”

  On her journey back to Glasgow Ivy kept reviewing the events of the day in her head. The trancing in broad daylight; the visit with her Grandmother.

  Just wait till I tell Dad about that little lot. He, a doctor, even more than most people knows that dead is dead – exactly that. Yet here’s his dear-departed mother floating about her old home in Dunoon delivering messages like some busy local postie.

  Ivy frowned. But it was weird. How did that medium know about my divorce? How could he know my husband’s name? Best of all how could he possibly know Alec was a waste of space? Yes, Mr Bill McCaffrey, spirit friend, or whoever or whatever came up with the goods, Alec sure was holding me back. In every way – emotionally, financially, socially. God alone knows how, but they certainly got that right.

  Chapter Two

  The moment she arrived at her office a few days later, having been out of town on another assignment, a junior bustled up to say: “Miss Kennedy, Mr Hunter wants to see you in his office.”

  Ivy smiled. “Thanks, Kyra. Just give a minute to sort my desk out and I’ll be right there.”

  Kyra gave an apologetic cough. “Er ... he did say, now. He saw you coming in and sent me straight over. He seems very anxious to have a meeting with you.”

  “Best news I’ve had all week. Sounds like he’s all excited about my Dunoon article – that special feature I did. Right, here I go.”

  The editor, Mr Hunter, waved her to a seat, then lifting a sheaf of papers, he pointed them towards her and said: “This is what cost me your expenses to Dunoon?”

  Ivy nodded. “And worth every penny don’t you think?”

  After a pause he placed the papers on his desk and glared at her. “I think you’ve lost your marbles. What happened? Did this guy hypnotise you? Have you fallen madly in love with the weirdo and become his PR agent?”

  Ivy’s eyes widened in surprise. However, she’d come up the hard way in the newspaper business, no longer the bottom of the pile, the tea girl, and she was proud of the article she’d just written. She wasn’t about to take his bad temper to heart – at least not without a fight.

  “Listen, Boss, okay I knew you’d probably hate the title, A Sense of the Supernatural–”

  “Who the hell is talking about the title? One of your usual idiotic titles would hardly make you his PR agent would it?”

  Sitting forward in her chair, Ivy said: “Look, you asked for an in-depth interview with a psychic medium and that, forgive me if I’m wrong, is exactly what I’ve given you.”

  “Rubbish! What you’ve given me is a glowing account of some film-star look-alike who goes into a trance at the bat of an eye; who conjures up your dead old Granny; who tells you, surprise, surprise, that you’re divorced. Damn it, half the world is divorced. So what?”

  “Come on, Boss, you’ve got to admit it’s a fascinating subject. Your readers will love it. It will sell papers.”

  He nodded. “Aye, correct on all counts ... but taking the angle you’ve done you’ll end up alienating hundreds of our loyal readers of many different faiths and beliefs. Worst of all, you’ll also lose your integrity. You haven’t thought along those lines have you?”

  Before Ivy could answer he went on in a quiet determined voice: “Surely you knew why I chose you to go and see this guy. You’re nobody’s fool, a hard-hitting investigative journalist. I was convinced you’d do a great job of debunking all the mumbo-jumbo of the paranormal.”

  Ivy opened her mouth to reply but Hunter was clearly determined to have the last word.

  “At the very least I’d expected a sitting-on-the-fence approach – enough mystery and intrigue about ghosts and ghoulies to titivate a reader’s imagination, then leaving plenty of room for doubt – reasonable doubt. That way as well as the paper getting a worthwhile article, you get to keep your integrity as an unbiased investigative reporter. So, back to the drawing board – no, the garbage can for this. Think again.”

  Several weeks later Ivy was again called into the editor’s office, but this time his face was beaming.

  “Right, lass, that controversial piece you did on alternative medicine – now that really hit the nail on the head. You managed to keep your own views on the matter well cloaked. We’ve had a lot of reaction to it.”

  Ivy gave a rueful smile. “Not least from my father, he’s a doctor. He knows my views. He’s on the point of disowning me.”

  The Editor laughed. “See what I mean? A lot of reaction. That’s what sells newspapers. So, here’s what I want. A follow-up article – maybe even a series – with patients who have experienced opposition from traditional consultants to alternative medicine; with some who are already deeply into holistic practices and maybe even with anybody brave enough to go into battle to hold out for a mix of the two. Remember your ringside seat in this is strictly on the fence.”

  Ivy rose to go then thought the moment about right to broach another matter.

  He listened to what she had to say, waved her back to her seat and said: “Oh, aye, The Sense of the Supernatural? No! That stays spiked.”

  “But, Boss, you said it was well written.”

  “I did? A moment of mental aberration. No, in its present form, no deal. Is that clear, Ivy?”

  “Yes, crystal clear. I only mentioned it again because I’ve had a letter from that medium guy–”

  The editor’s eyebrows went up. “Here we go – he’s pressing for publication. Desperate for the free publicity.”

  “No, not in so many words. The thing is he’s invited me – on one of these, guest and one other, deals – to attend his next weekend of ‘Psychic Awareness’. I thought I should run it past you in view of our last discussion.”

  Hunter looked thoughtful. “Okay, here’s what we do. Contact the medium. Ask if he’d be happy enough for me to be the ‘one other’ of the invitation. If he’s okay with that, we’ll go together. If he is that Mister Wonderful that your article makes out then I’ll see for myself.”

  Ivy grimaced. “A freebie weekend might be something of a bonus, eh Boss?”

  He gave hearty laugh. “It might do something in the office for my reputation as a fading, ageing Lothario. The only connotation that lot out there understand are ‘dirty weekends’.”

  Ivy chuckled but he went on: “If your father is about to disown you I’ll be going along ‘in loco parentis’ – someone has to protect you from ‘The Sense of the Supernatural’ and it might as well be me.”

  Chapter Three

  Dinner in the opulent wood-panelled dining room at Ardfyne was a grand occasion, but what really impressed Hunter was
the menu: a starter of smoked Loch Fyne salmon; Aberdeen Angus pepper-steak with all the trimmings; an excellent cheesecake.

  As he sat back replete at the end of the meal, he said to Ivy: “Even if the rest of this psychic awareness carry on is a total loss, that magnificent meal makes the weekend worthwhile.”

  “So all is forgiven?” Ivy smiled.

  “Let’s just see how I get on with the spooky business later before we decide.”

  The guests assembled in the drawing room and chatted over their coffee and mints as the mixed group got to know each other. Preconceived ideas on how the psychic awareness weekend might evolve were exchanged.

  After listening for a short time, Hunter said: “So far it has all been very pleasant. When does the medium reappear? I know he met us when we arrived but there hasn’t been sight or sound of him since.”

  Another guest smiled. “Oh, you didn’t know? This is my second weekend. I thought everyone knew. Bill is also the chef – he does all his own cooking. He’ll join us for coffee once he’s finished in the kitchen and freshened up.”

  Her husband added: “Yes, once Bill comes in – you’ll really know all about it – your weekend then goes into orbit.”

  As if on cue, the door opened and Bill walked in. As he made his way towards the green-velvet covered chair which had clearly been left for him every eye in the room was on him. There was already an air of expectancy almost tinged with an element of fear – fear of the unknown.

  Once seated comfortably, Bill looked round the circle of faces then said: “Again, welcome to Ardfyne and to this latest psychic awareness weekend. First let me assure you there is nothing to be afraid of. There will be no weird stage effects. Everything will be completely natural. If by the end of this weekend you are still unconvinced about the existence of the paranormal, it just doesn’t matter.”

  There were a few gasps of surprise at this, but Bill carried on: “No, it really does not matter. We are not selling anything. Spirit is, spirit exists, spirit goes on, in spite of anything we feel or say. By the time you leave here on Sunday you should at least be more self-aware – more in tune with your own part in the scheme of things.”

  The woman who was on her second visit nodded. “That’s true enough.”

  Bill smiled at her. “Yes, once self-awareness changes; once you are really honest with yourself and come to terms with who you really are and not the front you present to the world – once that happens, then without a doubt spirit will help you. I’ve seen people’s lives changed right around – often in a very short time.”

  This lead to some discussion within the group and Bill introduced his guests to some basic tenets of spirituality and spiritual enlightenment.

  “Mr and Mrs Edgar have already seen trance in broad daylight,” Bill said. “Has anyone else ever before had the experience of looking on the faces of some dear departed?”

  A chorus of ‘noes’ greeted this question.

  “Then there is no time like the present, is there? So, as long as everyone is quite comfortable, and at ease with the idea, I’ll do a bit of trancing now. Let’s see who’s here.”

  Ivy looked round the group, finally staring at Hunter. She thought: Certainly in the warmth of the drawing room they are all physically comfortable enough, but as for being at ease – that’s an entirely different matter.

  Sensing their hesitation, Bill discussed what his audience understood by the word trance. The final consensus was that it referred to a state of intense mental concentration or an abnormal state of suspended consciousness.

  Bill sat upright in his chair with his hands loosely clasped in his lap. After rolling back his eyes showing only the whites, he then closed them. His breathing became less audible.

  Ivy saw a gradual change come over Bill’s features. At first it seemed as if his face went somewhat out of focus. This was followed by a subtle change and, like holograms, a rapid succession of other faces appeared superimposed on Bill’s.

  A number of elderly, bewhiskered, gentlemen passed through, and one younger Victorian man, obviously keen to impress himself on Ivy, re-appeared several times. Fleeting sights of uniform-capped soldiers and ships’ captains were followed by a bevy of Victorian ladies with the extravagantly styled hats and hair-dos of the period. Interspersed with these, in what seemed to be a cast of thousands were many more modern faces.

  As if waking from a short cat-nap Bill opened his eyes.

  “Well, what did you see?” he said.

  After a moment’s silence they spoke almost in unison: “We thought we saw–”

  Bill cut them off. “Stop right there. You either saw or you did not see. Imagination or tenuous thought does not come into it.”

  One man started to argue the case but Bill cut him down. “What you must understand is this: the real proof is when two or more onlookers are able to state categorically that they saw the same faces when I was in trance. Now then, was there any one face you saw that for some reason stood out from the others?”

  When one guest started to describe the bewhiskered gentleman who kept re-appearing there were murmurs of agreement and it rapidly became apparent they had all seen the same scholarly-looking young man.

  Ivy hesitantly volunteered the information that every time he looked out at her the word, or name, ‘MacFadyen’ popped into her head.

  Bill gave Ivy a rather quizzical look and without saying anything rose and left the room.

  Hunter turned to Ivy and muttered: “I hope he’s gone for another pot of coffee – that or some liquid spirits. If I had my way I’d get the hell out of here now.”

  However, Bill returned not with refreshments but carrying a framed photograph which he held up for the group to see.

  “That’s him! That’s the man I saw!” Ivy said.

  Several others in the group agreed.

  “This is Murdoch MacFadyen ... I found this photograph, wedged behind a cupboard in a bedroom, years after I bought this old house.”

  “And the story behind it?” Hunter said.

  “On the back was printed, ‘Murdoch MacFadyen, LLB’ and on the front, very faded. ‘To dearest Elenora from Murdoch’.”

  “You could soon find who he was with that info,” Hunter said.

  Bill smiled. “Always the reporter, Mr Hunter. Yes, you could, but I don’t pry into the lives of my visitors. If they wish to tell me they will find a way.”

  “Well, MacFadyen has given you a way. The name and a qualification.”

  “Perhaps.”

  After the psychic weekend, on their way back to Glasgow, Ivy turned to Hunter. “Come on, Boss, you did admit to seeing the same faces as the rest of us when Bill was in trance.”

  Hunter gave her a rueful look. “Your memory is too damn good. Yes, it’s true. I did say that then, because in the heat of the moment I thought I saw something.”

  “There you are, then!”

  “There I am, nothing of the kind. Once I thought about it the clear light of the morning after, I decided it had all been down to my vivid imagination – group auto-suggestion.”

  “Yes, you and that TV producer. A right pain you two were at breakfast. She said last night that she had seen the full figure of an Indian guide as we all did. But this morning? Oh no, just like you. Denying the whole thing. Mass hysteria, she said. Blethering on about her integrity. What is it with you people? Can’t you at least be honest?”

  “Ivy, we’ve been through all this before when I told you why I wouldn’t publish that over-enthusiastic article that you thought was an unbiased report. Unbiased, my foot, creative writing more like.”

  They sat in silence for some time before Hunter said: “There was all that nonsense about self-awareness changing the course of people’s lives. I haven’t noticed any such positive results in your case. Same old familiar routine, right? Not a damn thing has changed since you jumped on the paranormal bandwagon. Be honest – that’s something else the weirdo said: ‘always be honest’ – so let’s hear i
t loud and clear. Everything for you is as it always has been, correct?”

  Ivy grinned. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out. In a few days, all will be revealed.”

  Hunter snorted. “The air of mystery must be catching. Do you want a plastic cup of CalMac coffee before we dock?”

  “Your treat? Up till now you’ve had a real freebie weekend. Mind you – a plastic cup? A bit of a let down after the Royal Doulton China at Ardfyne.”

  “I’ll be glad to get back to normal. Auld claes and parritch with nary a spirit manifestation in sight.”

  Chapter Four

  For the first time in her life Ivy felt free – really free of all the constraints in her life. Free of having a home to look after and free finally of parental apron strings. She and her father had argued over her latest ‘craze’, the paranormal, and her decision to give up her job in journalism and strike out as a novelist.

  Well, I suppose the psychic view is, everything is now the way it’s meant to be, she thought.

  A shadow startled her and she looked up to see young Kyra, the office junior from her old newspaper.

  “I hope I didn’t disturb your train of thought,” Kyra said.

  “No, no. Have a seat.” Ivy moved a package from the bench beside her. “I’m very pleased to see you. Still slaving away at the office are you?”

  “You mean I have a choice? Fat chance of that with Hunter cracking the whip. Nothing changes – except, of course, for you. The way I heard it you were half-way round the world by now writing your best-seller.”

  Ivy laughed. “I wish. The men in that office are bigger gossips than any group of stair-heid women and what they don’t know they make up.”

  After a silence Kyra said: “If it’s not being too cheeky, what are you doing?”

  “Since I was introduced to the paranormal I’ve become aware that life is definitely what you make it – anyone can do anything, be who or what they want and go anywhere.”