Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine

       3

      While Tim locked the car the following evening, Jo stared up at the front of the house. It was a tall, shabby building in the centre of a long terrace of once elegant Edwardian town houses, the windows dark and somehow forbidding on this, the deeply shadowed side of the street. She turned her back on it with a shiver and glanced down instead at the brightly lit windows in the basement of the house behind her. Through one she could see a woman bustling round in the kitchen; putting cups out on a tray. The ordinariness of the action was reassuring. Behind them the traffic sped down the hill, slowing at the bottom for the traffic lights before dropping into Richmond.

      ‘Jo, about last night –’ Tim was pocketing his car keys.

      ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Jo hunched her shoulders. ‘It was a great party for some. Now please forget it.’

      ‘But the way Judy behaved was appalling. How could she have even thought of it!’

      ‘She’s a jealous lady, Tim, fighting for a man. Women are like that. Primeval!’

      ‘And aren’t you going to fight?’

      ‘For Nick? No.’

      Two young women were climbing the hill towards them, their arms linked. They were giggling, looking at the house numbers, and instinctively Jo knew they were heading for the same address. She relaxed slightly. For them it had the same slightly naughty, slightly frightening feeling as Jo had felt attending a seance when she was a student. She shivered. Was it going to be a party game as she suspected or had Nick been right? Would the evening turn into something risky? Firmly she put Nick out of her mind. Whatever had been left between her and Nick was over.

      She was aware suddenly that Tim was behind her. He was smiling. ‘I hope the one in the décolleté red dress takes part,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like to see her in an orgasmic seizure!’

      ‘Lech.’ She grinned at him affectionately. ‘I don’t know where you get this idea that everyone has an orgasm the moment they are regressed. Has it crossed your mind that in a previous life she may have been a man with a stubby beard and BO?’

      ‘Spoil-sport. She might have been a boy, though. Look at that neat little derrière!’ They watched the two girls climb the flight of stone steps which spanned the basement area and ring the doorbell. A light came on behind the stained glass of the fanlight. The door opened and the two girls disappeared.

      Jo took Tim’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t make comments like that, Mr Heacham. It could get you a reputation, you know,’ she said, laughing. They waited side by side for a gap in the traffic before crossing the road then sprinted between a taxi and a Bedford van. ‘Perhaps we’d better get you regressed. Find out what you were in a previous life.’

      ‘No fear.’ Tim stopped abruptly at the foot of the steps and took her hand. ‘Jo, love. Can you bear in mind that this chap is a friend of a friend? Go easy on the put-downs.’

      ‘I’m not going to put anyone down, Tim.’ She hitched her thumb through the strap of the bag on her shoulder. ‘I’m going strictly as an observer. I shan’t say a word. Promise.’

      The front door was opened by a woman in a long Laura Ashley dress, her fair hair caught back in an untidy pony-tail. She had a clipboard in her hand.

      ‘Mr Heacham and Miss Clifford?’ she confirmed. ‘The others are all here. Follow me, please.’

      The dark hallway was carpeted wall to wall with a thick brown runner which muffled their footsteps as they followed her past several closed doors and up a flight of stairs to the first floor. There, in a large room, facing onto the long narrow gardens which backed the houses, they found Bill Walton and some dozen other people, already seated on a semicircle of upright chairs.

      Walton held out his hand to them. ‘How are you? As you requested, Tim, I’ve told everyone that a lady and gentleman of the press will be here. No one objects.’ He was a small, wizened man of about fifty, his sandy hair standing out in wisps around his head. Jo looked apprehensively into his prominent green eyes as she shook hands.

      Somewhere outside children were playing in the evening sunlight. She could hear their excited shouting and the dull thud as a foot connected with a ball. In the room there was a muted expectant silence. She could see the two girls seated side by side at the end of the row. Both now looked distinctly frightened. Next to them a man in a roll-necked sweater whispered to his companion and laughed quietly.

      The room was a study – a large, comfortable untidy room, the wall at one end lined with books, the opposite one hung with a group of Japanese prints mounted on broad strips of fawn linen. Jo took her place on one of the remaining chairs whilst Tim slipped unobtrusively behind her, perching on the arm of a chair by the fire, removing the lens cap from his camera and putting it quietly down on the seat beside him.

      Walton moved to the windows and half drew the curtains, shutting out the soft golden glow of the evening. Then he switched on a desk lamp. He grinned at the small audience before him.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, first let me welcome you all. I hope you are going to find this evening instructive and entertaining. Let me say at the outset that there is nothing whatsoever to be afraid of. No one can be hypnotised who does not wish it.’ He glanced at Jo as, quietly, she slipped a notebook out of her bag. She rested it, still shut, on her knee. ‘My usual procedure is to make a few simple tests initially to find out how many of you are good hypnotic subjects, then from amongst those who seem to be suitable I shall ask for volunteers to be put into deep hypnosis and regressed if possible. I should emphasise that it does not always happen, and there have been occasions when I have found no one at all suitable amongst my audience.’ He laughed happily. ‘That is why I prefer to have a dozen or so people present. It gives us a better choice.’

      Jo shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair and crossed her legs. Beside her the others were all staring at him, half hypnotised already, she suspected, by the quiet smoothness of his voice.

      ‘Now,’ he continued, hitching himself up onto the desk so that he was sitting facing them, his legs swinging loosely, crossed at the ankle. ‘Perhaps you would all look at my finger.’ He raised it slowly until it was level with his eyes. ‘Now, as I raise my hand you will find that your own right hand rises into the air of its own accord.’

      Jo felt her fingers close convulsively around her pencil. Her hands remained firmly in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hand of the man next to her as it twitched slightly and moved, then it too fell back onto his knee. She noticed his Adam’s apple jump sharply as he swallowed. She looked back at Walton, who was watching them all with apparent lack of interest. ‘Fine. Now I want you all to sit back and relax against the back of your chairs. Perhaps you would fix your eyes on the light behind me here on the desk. The light is bright and hard on the eyes. Perhaps if you were to close your eyes for a few moments and rest them.’ His voice had taken on a monotonous gentle tone which soothed the ears. ‘Fine, now it may be that when you try to open them you will find that you can’t. Your lids are sealed. The light is too bright to look at. The darkness is preferable.’ Jo could feel the nails of her hands biting into her palms. She leaned forward and stared down the line of seated people. Two were blinking at the light almost defiantly. The others all sat quietly, their eyes closed. Walton was smiling. Quietly he stood up and padded forward over the thick carpet. ‘Now I am going to touch your hands, one by one, and when