Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

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 I pick them up you will find that you cannot put them down.’ His voice had taken on a peremptory tone of command. He approached the man next to Jo, ignoring her completely. The man’s eyes were open and he watched almost frightened as Walton caught his wrist and lifted the limp hand. He let go and to Jo’s surprise the arm stayed where it was, uncomfortably suspended in midair. Walton made no comment. He passed on to the next person in the line. Behind her Jo heard the faint click of the camera shutter.

      A moment later it was all over. Gently, almost casually, Walton spoke over his shoulder as he returned to his desk. ‘Fine, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. You may lower your hands and open your eyes. And may I suggest that we all have some coffee at this stage while we consider what is going to happen next.’

      Jo licked her lips nervously. Her mouth had gone dry as she sat watching the man next to her. His hand had returned slowly to his lap, completely naturally, without any effort of will on his part, as far as she could see. She glanced over her shoulder at Tim. He winked and gave a thumbs-up sign. Then he subsided into his chair. As if at a signal the door had opened behind them and the young woman reappeared wheeling a trolley on which sat two large earthenware coffee pots. Unobtrusively she moved up the line of chairs, never speaking, nor raising her eyes to meet those of anyone in the room. Jo watched her and found herself wondering suddenly whether it was to stop herself from laughing at their solemn faces.

      When they had all had their coffee Walton sat down once more. He was looking preoccupied as he stirred the cup before him on the desk. Only when the woman had left the room did he speak.

      ‘Now, I’m glad to say that several of you tonight have demonstrated that you are susceptible to hypnosis. What I intend to do is to ask if any one of those people would like to volunteer to come and sit over here.’ He indicated a deep leather armchair near the desk. ‘Bring your coffee with you of course and we’ll discuss what is going to happen.’

      It was several minutes before anyone could be prevailed upon to move but at last one stout, middle-aged woman rose to her feet. She looked flustered and clutched her cup tightly as she approached the chair and perched on the edge of it.

      Walton rose from his desk. ‘It’s Mrs Potter, isn’t it? Sarah Potter. Now, my dear, please make yourself comfortable.’ His voice had dropped once more and Jo again found herself sitting upright, consciously resisting the beguilement of the man’s tone as she watched the woman lean back and close her eyes. Walton gently took the cup from her and without any preliminary comments began to talk her back into her childhood. After only a slight hesitancy she began to answer him, describing scenes from her early schooldays and they could all plainly hear the change in the quality of her voice as it rose and thinned girlishly. Tim stood up and, creeping forward, dropped on one knee before the woman with his camera raised. Walton ignored him. ‘Now, my dear, we are going back to the time before you were born. Tell me what you see.’

      There was a long silence. ‘Back, further back into the time before you were little Sarah Fairly. Before, long before. You were on this earth before, Sarah. Tell me who you were.’

      ‘Betsy.’