London Belongs to Me

by Norman Collins

  And that was just how Mrs Vizzard liked to dress. Modern women, girls especially, slouched their way through life. Without corsets and sometimes, even without stockings, they slopped. Whereas Mrs Vizzard carried herself. She was upright and unsagging.

  At the moment, however, she was nearly out of her senses with anxiety. And all because of Mr Squales. She had already gone round once, locking everything up. But, now that she remembered him, she made another inspection, pulling at the drawers of her desk, at the cupboard door, at the lid of the coal bin just to make sure that the catches had caught. She had turned over in her mind the idea of fixing a piece of stamp paper across the outside door to see if Mr Squales had equipped himself with a skeleton key – a whole bunch of them possibly – which enabled him to break in whenever he fancied.

  Finally, she could bear it no longer. She went and stood for a moment outside Mr Squales’ door, listening. But she wasn’t quite sure what it was that she expected to hear. Whatever it was, she heard nothing. The sense of mystery deepened. Why should he go out only at night‐time? she asked herself. It was almost as if he were afraid to face the daylight. He was never out for very long on these furtive evening sorties. It was usually well before midnight when he got back. But whatever went on in those intervening hours was evidently strangely wearing. She had met him once when he was coming in, and seen his face in the downward shaft of light from the gas bracket in the hall. It was the face of an exhausted man – with beads of perspiration all along the forehead.

  A burglar? Could that be it? It would explain everything. A burglar here in the next room beside her. And a murderer, too, for all she knew. Either that or someone who preyed – she didn’t know how – on women. Whichever of these he was she resolved to get rid of him.

  But there was something else to‐night to occupy her mind. For she was on her way to keep an appointment. And no ordinary appointment at that. Nothing less than one with the late Mr Vizzard, in fact. For a few tense privileged moments she was going to be allowed to peep behind the veil, to penetrate, to voyage astrally. And all for half‐a‐crown. The members of the South London Psychical Society had been specially circularised for the occasion. The new medium was as gifted as he was reluctant, it seemed. The recipient of frequent and informative messages from the Other Side, he was perfectly content to remain in exclusive possession of them. Nothing less than two guineas would persuade him.

  There were half a dozen of the subscribers already arrived by the time Mrs Vizzard got there. And Mr Chinkwell, the secretary, was passing with bright bird‐like movements from one to the other, a tray of sandwiches in one hand, a plate of bridge‐rolls in the other. He was a quick nervous little man, always up on his toes and anxious to make a success of things. Full of new ideas, he was always proposing fresh schemes – visits to neighbouring psychical societies, pilgrimages to the homes of famous mediums, trips to haunted houses.

  Altogether, he was the driving force in the Society – very different from the decayed and unprofitable clergyman, Dr Glassey‐Whyte, who had preceded him. Dr Glassey‐Whyte’s exclusively theological training had finally landed him into trouble on the financial side – there was nearly fifty pounds’ worth of subscriptions that could never be traced – and he had resigned. But little Mr Chinkwell was a born accountant. Under his guidance, the spirits showed a profit.

  Mr Chinkwell hopped forward to greet Mrs Vizzard.

  ‘Good‐evening,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad that you were able to come. The medium has not arrived yet. But I’m told that he is never late. Fish‐paste or sandwich‐spread?’

  The other women who were there were already munching. They were building up their strength for the experience. And Mr Chinkwell was plying them. Between single ladies and light refreshments there is, he had discovered, an irresistible attraction. And though they paid sixpence a head for them, on top of the half‐crown, they still liked to have the plate passed to them and say ‘Thank you,’ as though it had all been a friendly charity of Mr Chinkwell’s. What was more they ate heartily. Even Mrs Jan Byl. A widow of great wealth from Knightsbridge – it was her car that stood outside as glittering and imposing as a hearse – she tucked into the sandwiches along with the rest.

  By five‐to‐eight there were 13 of them there and Mr Chinkwell was getting worried. But at eight o’clock sharp – it showed an almost psychic awareness of the time – the door bell rang and it was the medium, the great Qualito. There was something strangely electric about his coming. One of the members, a schoolmistress from Sydenham, said that she could positively feel the man: it was, she said, exactly as though someone had run a long, cold thumbnail along her spine.

  But even so that didn’t mean that the séance could begin at once. Mr Chinkwell brought back the message that Qualito was resting and did not wish to be disturbed. He had asked for a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and it seemed that there was no possibility of rushing him. The Sydenham schoolmistress declared that a sudden loosening of the tension in her spine denoted that the medium was probably dozing.

  But at eight‐twenty‐five everything was ready, and they all trooped through into the séance room. It was a bare lofty room, sparsely furnished with a long oval table. A small red‐domed light glowed in the middle. The table was surrounded by deal chairs. And a secondhand sideboard supported the apparatus – a megaphone, a canary‐cage with a white silk handkerchief inside, a planchette, a pair of tambourines and a deep bowl of mercolised wax. Most of the objects were painted with luminous paint so that the spectators could keep an eye on what was happening to them once the light had been turned out. But the mercolised wax was for examination afterwards. It was there specially for those mediums who produced spirit hands out of themselves and tantalisingly re‐absorbed them.

  The idea was simple but effective. The medium was invited to materialise the ectoplasmic hand inside the wax. Then when the séance was over a cast of the pseudopod could be cast in plaster and the investigators could examine this hand from nowhere. It was all very modern and scientific and advanced. And Mr Chinkwell had calculated that he could sell plaster casts of pseudopods for five guineas apiece to no fewer than 137 corresponding societies. The only thing so far that was lacking was the medium who could produce pseudopods.

  But sometimes at dull séances, when Mr Chinkwell should have been thinking of the Other Side and the Dawn Lands and the Happy Vale he just sat there multiplying 137 by 5 and adding in the odd shillings.

  Qualito, as it turned out, was one of those mediums who couldn’t stand a strong light even before séances. He had apparently been sitting in total darkness upstairs for the past ten minutes. So the lights in the séance room were turned down in readiness and only the red light on the table – a kind of satanic night‐light – was left burning. Then the door at the end opened and Qualito was led in. He sat down in the big armchair at the head of the table with Mrs Jan Byl on one side of him and Mrs Vizzard at the other. The schoolmistress had asked to be allowed to sit up there beside him, but Mr Chinkwell had been compelled to refuse. If she felt long, cold thumbnails running up and down her spine when she was in another room, he did not like to think what she would feel when she was actually touching him.

  Qualito himself seemed admirably composed. He had already changed into slippers and now he took off his collar and tie and loosened his waistcoat. Then sitting back limply in his chair he hung his hands over the side as if they didn’t belong to him and in a deep un‐English voice addressed the company.

  ‘Let us form a leeving circle,’ he suggested. ‘Circles are so strong.’ The schoolmistress almost swooned when she at last came into contact with this powerful man even though he was seven places away from her. It was as though invisible sparks, as she described it, leapt from the finger‐tips of her two neighbours, and kindled something inside her.

  For quite a time, however, absolutely nothing happened. Qualito seemed merely to be resting at the Society’s expense. And for all the good he was, he might have sta
yed away altogether.

  It was the alert Mr Chinkwell who was the first to notice that his breathing had changed. It was now deep and laboured as if instead of just sitting there he were running, actually running. And it was getting more laboured still. It was as if the man were choking. Finally he said something, something so muttered and indistinct no one could catch the meaning. It was obvious, however, that the man was speaking. But was it? It didn’t sound like his voice at all. Qualito’s voice was smooth, like olive oil, and this other voice was highter and older. It was as though a man of seventy were in the chair with him.

  Then quite suddenly the voice, whoseever voice it was, came through quite clearly. It spoke to them. There was Qualito, low in his chair, moaning and shuddering, and there was this voice speaking through him.

  ‘I am Pi Yam,’ it said. ‘I greet you. I cannot see you plainly. But I greet you.’

  There was a pause after this, and Mr Chinkwell after allowing Pi Yam a few seconds grace to see if he wanted to add anything, addressed him.

  ‘Where are you, Pi Yam?’ he asked.

  ‘Among the mountains,’ Pi Yam answered.

  ‘What mountains?’

  ‘High mountains.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘Time has no meaning where I am. There is no sunrise and no sunset. It is always morning. It is very beautiful.’

  ‘What do the mountains look like?’

  ‘They are snow covered. Like clouds seen from far off at sea.’

  ‘Is it cold?’ the schoolmistress asked in a tense voice charged with emotion.

  ‘There is neither heat nor cold where I am,’ he reproved her. ‘Heat and cold are diseases.’

  ‘Isn’t even the snow cold?’ Mrs Jan Byl asked.

  But this time Pi Yam declined to answer.

  ‘What were you on earth, Pi Yam?’ Mr Chinkwell put in hurriedly.

  He didn’t want the evening spoiled for the others simply because Mrs Jan Byl was badgering their visitor with awkward questions. On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to offend Mrs Jan Byl.

  ‘I was dedicate. A Lama,’ Pi Yam said simply. ‘Tibet was my home. I lived in a monastery with two hundred other Lamas. My earthly name meant Water Stillness. I was renamed when I came here. My new name is Brightly Shining. But they call me Messenger.’

  ‘I thought you said you were alone.’

  It was Mrs Jan Byl who had spoken.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then who is there to speak to you,’ she demanded.

  Pi Yam was silent for a moment, almost as if sulking.

  ‘The birds,’ he said at last. ‘And the flowers.’

  ‘Flowers up there among all that snow?’

  ‘Snow‐flowers,’ said Pi Yam tartly and refused to be drawn further.

  ‘Have you any message for anyone here?’ Mr Chinkwell enquired.

  ‘I have a message for everyone,’ Pi Yam replied. ‘Confucius gave it to me. It is this: an eagle falling from a great height may capture a young lamb, but a lily gathers sweetness without moving.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Mrs Jan Byl asked pointedly.

  ‘Only by realising our All‐Oneness shall we attain Peace,’ Pi Yam continued as though he had not noticed the interruption and were speaking to himself now. ‘Speed is no substitute for contemplation. The love of mother and child is no more gracious than the lust of a serpent for its victim. The stars show us the way but we do not follow them. Our pride is like slippers of lead upon our feet. Even the All‐Nothingness is a part of the All‐Oneness.’

  ‘Will you speak direct to one of us?’ Mr Chinkwell suggested. ‘Bring us tidings perhaps?’

  He knew how much these personal messages were always appreciated.

  Pi Yam considered the point for a moment.

  ‘There is one here who is unhappy,’ he said at last. ‘A woman. She is like an empty bottle containing no wine. She is desolate. She longs for the wine, but it is withheld. She had searched for truth but been disappointed. She seeks for a strong arm to rest on, but she cannot find it. Her breasts ache. She weeps for her misfortunes. I tell her to be happy. She is like a harp that the wind plays on. The music is faint and far‐off. But somewhere there are ears which hear it.’

  The schoolmistress from Sydenham gave a great gulp and because her hands were engaged and she could not get at her handkerchief she sat there sniffing. She could hardly bear to have him go on.

  But Pi Yam apparently had finished: his message was delivered. It was Qualito and not the Tibetan Lama who sat there. And as the spirit left him he began twitching and jerking so violently that Mrs Vizzard and Mrs Jan Byl could scarcely hold him. There were those shuddering groans again. And, as he jerked his head, little flecks of sweat from his forehead fell on Mrs Jan Byl’s expensive skirt. Then the breathing quietened and Qualito’s real voice spoke to them.

  ‘Give me light,’ he said anxiously. ‘Give me light. I am frightened.’

  Mr Chinkwell had been ready for this moment. He leant forward and kicked on the switch with his foot. In the sudden blaze no one could see anything for a moment. They screwed up their faces and shook themselves. One or two wiped their foreheads. Then everyone turned towards the medium who was lying back in his chair exhausted.

  Mrs Vizzard was one of the first to turn. And when she turned she saw that it was the hand of Mr Squales that she had been holding.

  ‘It’s my belief,’ Mrs Jan Byl was saying in a Knightsbridge whisper, ‘that the man’s an impostor.’

  Chapter IX

  INTERLUDE WITH DR OTTO HAPFEL

  In his single bed‐sitting room in Coram Street, Dr Otto Hapfel, the young man who had visited the South London Parliament, was writing a letter. It was a long letter, and he was taking immense pains over it. For it was no ordinary letter. He had written a weekly document of this kind ever since he had been in England. And it had finally become the very centre of his life. Even his studies were now only of secondary importance compared with it. He spent nearly the whole week, when he was not at lectures, going to the theatre, the football matches, to restaurants, to religious services, to public meetings, painstakingly observing the strange British race and making notes on its behaviour. It was his fervent hope, his prayer, that somehow or other he might hit on some single aspect of English life that had never been scientifically isolated before, something that might provide the essential key to the national character.

  On the face of it the effort was not wasted. The recipient of these six and seven page letters – he was Dr Karl Anders, senior history master at the Gymnasium at Krefeld – had hinted that the letters did not remain unseen by other eyes. He had even taken the liberty of having copies made. And he had shown them in the right quarters. In the result, they had gone high. Very high. Exactly how high Dr Hapfel dared not ask. But there was a suggestion of ultimate elevation that made it possible for Dr Otto Hapfel writing away in the rosy glow of his shilling‐in‐the‐slot gas fire in Coram Street, to imagine that passages from his letters – certain skilfully chosen sentences – might eventually find their way upwards and upwards until finally no less a person than the Führer himself… But this was absurd. Dr Hapfel was allowing his imagination to run away with him.

  All the same, was it really so absurd? If it hadn’t been for those letters why should he have been invited to the Embassy in Carlton House Terrace?9 There must have been a reason, a special and distinctive reason, something that had singled him out from all the other members of the German Students’ Club who hadn’t been invited. The Ambassador didn’t go about offering his hand to every German post‐graduate who was quietly pursuing his researches in London.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ he began his letter. ‘I trust that our beloved Führer enjoys good health. May he prosper!’

  There were two perfectly valid reasons for beginning his letter in this style. In the first place, it was only fair to Dr Anders as the envelope wa
s sure to be opened by the postal censors as soon as it got into Germany. And secondly he really felt that way. During the whole of his year in England he had felt himself mysteriously supported or assisted by the divine – yes, divine wasn’t too strong a word – love and strength that emanated from one man, and reached across rivers and mountains, over frontiers and continents and oceans to others of German race no matter where they were. It was exciting, like living in the birth of a religion while the Saviour – was still alive.

  Dr Hapfel gave the knob of his stylo a little twist and continued with his letter.

  ‘I have been to many theatres and cinemas lately,’ he wrote as solemnly as before, ‘and I thought that you might be interested to hear how the audience behaves when the National Anthem is played. It is highly instructive to observe the devices which are adopted to avoid testing the patience of the public too strongly. Sometimes a few bars only from an electric recording are played at the very beginning of a performance so that people can come late and so avoid hearing it altogether. Many adopt this pitiful subterfuge. In other theatres and cinemas, it is played in the same shortened form at the end. But the effect is much the same: many leave deliberately before it. Everyone is, of course, expected to stand at attention whenever it is played but, at the end of a performance, only some High Tories observe the convention. Others button up their overcoats, feel about for their gloves and reach for their umbrellas. Singing of the anthem is rarely heard except on Boat Race Night. The Boat Race, you will remember, is an intercollegiate race rowed in tidal water on the Thames between Putney and Mortlake and as the British are a sea power nation much popular enthusiasm is released by this demonstration of water fitness. At religious services in those denominations which I have attended the anthem is not played at all. At large football matches, called Cup Ties, the anthem is both played (generally by compulsory military bands) and sung; but at cricket matches it is rarely heard. I have been to Lord’s (the principal cricket stadium in London) three times without hearing it once.’