OUIJA NIGHTS.   …  a memoir sparked by a dinner party remark, “Do you think there’s anything in it? Spiritualism, life after death and all that?”

 

When I look through my life, I realize that I have had only a handful of friends. After family, it doesn't take me long to run through the list of meaningful relationships. And right up there is Maxwell of Norwich.

I never saw him.

I never met him.

I never heard him.

However, I spoke to him often, and he "wrote" to me over a twenty-five month period (I was in my mid twenties then).

He was honest, helpful and gave good advice. Then he disappeared from my life, though his words are with me still.

Let's see what I can remember.

THE WRONG PEOPLE 

Two couples, some animosity between the girls.

A very Sixties Victorian Terrace in Sydney's Bondi Junction.

Vietnam waxing, Beatles waning.

Black floors, rush matting, wine bottles various and Modiglianis jousting with Hockneys across mural battlefields.

The lights are low - candles in fact. We pass a glass tumbler round, breathing ritualistically into it in turn. I presume we all feel the same as I do – somewhat excited, two wines relaxed, a little self-conscious and on guard against manipulation, intentional or sub-conscious, by others.

The glass tumbler stands inverted on a lightly powdered glass table. An alphabet of Scrabble letters surrounds the glass. We each place a finger on the glass, willing it to move, meanwhile invoking any interested spirit. My arm becomes tired and unsteady, my finger twitches and the glass moves a millimetre. Three faces brighten, then fade in disappointment at my murmured "oops."

Thirty strained minutes pass. Did we or did we not hear a guitar string twang of its own accord? Assured by friends that this really does work, I am afraid of failure – no sensitivity, no spiritual dimension!

A sharp little face appears at the edge of the table, eyes wide, ears pricked – it is the cat. Suddenly, the glass moves, very fast, straight at the cat. It goes over the edge, landing intact on the matting floor covering.

This is embarrassing, for we all sense malevolence. The cat goes out, the glass goes back.

Soon, the glass stirs. There are tentative little shuffling movements, then circles and more purposeful sweeps.

"Who are you?"

The glass slides up to the letter J, bumps the tile, sweeps back to the centre, then advances again, bumping K. This is repeated. It spells out

J-K-J-K

"Where are you from?"

T-B-T T-

We are very excited, and are trying to help. However, we make little sense of this. 

"Tell us again".

T-B-E-T

"Is that Tibet?".

The glass moves to the "Yes" tile.

This is unsatisfactory. Already we are prompting answers and anticipating responses. However, no one of us is dominating, and there is energy in the glass which seems to be moving freely. I wonder if one of the others is guiding it and decide to test. "The next letter shall be 'I'” I think, and decide that my energies will tend in that direction. Immediately, two fingers leave the glass, which stops dead.

"Who's doing that?" asks Doug.

"Me," I reply.

They understand, and when anyone "tests", the others know immediately.

We address our contact again.

"What do you want to tell us?".

J-K-J-K -- HATE--K-J

"Are you JK?"

YES

"Are you KJ?"

NO

"Are you from Tibet"

YES

"Do you speak English?"

Swirling movement from the glass, but no answer.

We plunge on in this "push-pull" manner for quite some time. We get only "keywords" and have to build a story round them.

The words are B-R-O-T-H-E-R/ W-I-F-E/W-I-D-O-W/H-U-S-B-A-N-D/H-A-T-E/J-K/K-J/K-I-L-L/

Armed with only our contact's "yes/no" response, we probe for the story. We are not sure that this contact speaks English. The keywords are interspersed with "hate" and "kill".

There is a bad feeling about this – also an incredibly tedious feeling. We persevere for some time further, at the end of which we have no gold nuggets, just a few flecks of pyrites.

We surmise that JK and KJ are closely related in a Tibetan "widow belongs to brother-in-law" situation.

We decide to give it up for the evening and step out to the front porch.

We are today's bright young people, living in our trendy terrace. See the pot-plant in the window. See us at midnight, supping seated on our mosaic tiled porch.

Look at the building next door. It is the Eastern Suburbs Leagues Club, spilling out its nightly load of entertainees. One or two look sober. Another one (who isn't) vomits. Bidding each other noisy farewells, they fan out in search of their cars, innocent of seat belts, and most make it home safely.

This unseemly ritual apart, Bondi Junction is actually a pleasant spot situated between Bondi Beach and Paddington Barracks.

 

Even though we are not at all comfortable with each other's company, the sessions continue, although the material seems to be of the childish variety that seems to be so prevalent.

We move to the comfort of a large wooden table, and dispense with candles and warm-up rituals. Contact is quick and  positive. The glass moves with progressive ease, and we are soon "conversing" with a slightly odd, curious personality.

The glass is moving fast enough for one of us to leave off and act as secretary, generally separating the flow of letters into words as we go.

" I AM MUCH AMUSED BY THE PICTURE OF A SMALL BIRD ON PAUL'S SHIRT" - I am wearing a Tee Shirt with a Penguin Logo.

"THIS PICTURE MUST BE THE WORK OF THE DEVIL" - We have, opened on the table, a calendar with a photographed Autumn scene.

"MAXWELL OF NORWICH" in answer to the obvious question, "Who are you?"

Eventually, after a couple of sessions, we deduce that Maxwell of Norwich lived in the fourteenth century.

His tentative first "utterances" seems to indicate a state of confusion. Asked where he had been before we called him up, he answers, "In a shoe box in Paul L's cupboard". Paul L does indeed have shoe boxes in his cupboard. I ask Maxwell whether he had been a spider or a mouse. He replies that he does not know.

He returns to each session with fresh experience, and becomes much clearer in his assessment of his situation.

He tells us that he died at the age of 22 when his horse slipped on a wet hillside as he was mounting it.

He was a teacher of Mathematics and English, and made two trips to Turkey, for both Trade and Diplomatic reasons. They bought carpets and also taught English at the Turkish Court.

He now reveals that when we first "called him up" he was frightened.

"I EXPECTED TO BE LOOKING INTO THE FACES OF THE EVIL ONES OF MY DAY"

"Who are they?"

"WITCHES AND HERETICS"

"What about the "work of the devil" as you called that photograph.

"NOT KNOWING WHAT IT WAS, AND NEVER HAVING SEEN A PICTURE OF THIS QUALITY, I ASSUMED IT MUST BE THE WORK OF THE DEVIL, AS NO HUMAN HAND COULD HAVE DONE IT"

Max has no idea where he has been in the centuries after his death. However, he refuses to use the word "die" and insists on correcting us in this usage. He consistently says "When I left my body".

He appears to be behaving pretty much like any 22 year-old, and tells us that he has another contact, a young boy who is driving at Bathurst. In fact, he seems car-mad, to the point where we feel a little jealous of the hoon who is sharing our contact. A couple of phrases which Max uses strike us with force, partly because of their quaint language, and also their individual pint of view.

"…THIS INSANE AGE OF METAL PROGRESS"

"I AM HORRIFIED BY THE CLOCKWORK PRECISION WITH WHICH YOU LIVE YOUR LIVES"

Max is becoming quickly acclimatised, and concepts such as air travel and photography are becoming rapidly assimilated. There are occasional witticisms and word jokes, some of which don't seem very original.

We are amazed that he corrects us so often, and that our anticipations of his story are so often incorrect.

"I AM CO.."

"Concerned?"

"NO"

"Convinced?"

"NO"

"WHO'S TELLING THIS ST.."

"Who's telling this story, me or you?"

"YES. I AM CONSOLED BY....etc"

Relations between the girls however, are deteriorating fast, and Jean has been having unpleasant dreams, of teeth turning green, rotting and falling out. She has her doubts.

Time to find my own place. I take a place in inner suburban Surry Hills. Ensconced in my new home, I am closer again to another time. I must be very close to the spot where the author Ruth Park lived (The Harp In The South, A Fence Around the Cuckoo, Playing Beattie Bow and many more wonderful books).

THOU SHALT NOT… 

My own religious background and upbringing did not dispose me kindly to Spiritualistic activity of any kind. In our 50s classes of 80, 90 and even 100 children, not much was left to chance. Religious devotion was highly encouraged, and remnants of a medieval belief system persisted. During Lent, and on certain Feast days, visits to the Church, and other devotions could win much remission from the pain of Purgatory, a cleansing unit prior to finally entering Paradise. This system appealed to young minds, and we would compete to chalk up the highest credit. What appalled us was the time scale involved, for the period of remission won appeared so great, that it implied a vast amount of time in Purgatory itself.

Our teachers were very clear. "Only God knows the future. Any one who tells you different is lying, and one must beware the influence of the Devil".

This subject was both thorny and horned and a whiff of sulphur seemed to accompany the subject for many years.

The subject of spiritualism and associated activities such as ouija boards did not come up very often in our religious instruction, but whenever it was mentioned, it was in disparaging terms. "Only God knows the future" and anyone who claimed otherwise was in error. Astrology was treated as a harmless pastime unless one took it too seriously…it was also seen as possibly the tip of a horned iceberg. Anything which appeared to be of a miraculous or supernatural nature in this context was suspicious, and very likely the work of the devil.

THE WRONG PLACE 

Can you guess what I was at the time?

I'll tell you.

I was in the Army, as a bandsman stationed at Paddington Barracks. This was one of the more comfortable posts during the Vietnam War. The walled environs of the barracks, built by convicts in 1841-1846, contained a squash court and a billiard room, both of which were deserted, but which I began to use a great deal as a kind of personal club. After a day's work, I would take off for one to two hours surfing at Bondi Beach, where I shared a flat with Bernie. After a civilised dinner, I would return to the barracks to practice in our resonant bandroom.

Working on weekends, we often had compensatory days off mid-week-golden days on the sand as the rest of the city worked 9-5.

The descent to Bondi effectively turned one's back on the huge metropolis, and I entered a dreamland. Even as a partner-less, childless 22-year-old, I was deeply moved by the beautiful picture at the Southern end of the beach. A rock circle formed a natural shallow pool, where a group of young mothers would meet, bringing their tiny children. The best things in life were free, I thought.

This simple but timeless picture is with me still.

Used to swimming in the cold southern waters of Victoria, I was comfortable swimming through the Sydney Winter, sans wet-suit. I became a confident body surfer, always alert for the perfect wave and the next challenge. One week, it arrived. After fierce storms in the pacific, a powerful surf tore into the eastern coast, stripping the sand from many beaches.

As I surveyed the huge breakers crashing into the beach, I planned my tactic. In previous large seas, I spent a good deal of time making my way under the breakers until I reached green water where I would ride the swells and catch my breath till I was ready to surf.

I plunged into an ebbing river of froth foam and sand and shot under the first incoming white wall. I worked hard, plunging deep under successive waves, to find myself quite quickly in clear water, riding high, then dropping like an elevator with each mighty swell.

I was shocked to realize that I was "out the back" so soon. I was even more shocked when I looked up and realized that I had passed beyond the headlands of the crescent-shaped bay. I was in open ocean!

My heart lurched, and my first instinct was to sprint for the shore, but I was aware that I would be swimming against the current which had brought me out so fast..

I had my fins on, and got them working in a long, sustained kick, aiming for mid-beach.

As I swam, I noticed a throng of people on the headland between Bondi Junction and Tamarama, the adjacent cove. Above them a helicopter swooped. Feeling grimmer by the minute, I stroked steadily shore-ward, anxiously assessing whether I was getting inside the headlands. Still the helicopter rose and fell, rose and fell. The people were still there. Were some of them pointing at me?

Now I was inside the heads, but very tired. The swell lifted me up to roof-top height and passed on, leaving me aghast. Where was the glassy slope I would skim, dolphin-like, to the beach? Nowhere! Only a mountain of water collapsing in a cataclysm of foam-my only route to the beach, and I would have to take it, for the light was just beginning to fade.

Before giving myself any more thinking time, I committed my life to the next wave. Up, up and up again I rose thrusting strongly with my fins. On top of the mountain, my world stood still. An unbelievable drop yawned beneath me. Great angry white ridges barred the ocean between me and the beach.

And I knew I shouldn't have been there.

Reality was upon me again- it was freefall followed by a raging express train of water driving me deep down, tumbling me like a rag in a washing machine. I didn't know which way was up, where my breath had gone or how long I could hold out. The storm subsided and I bobbed to the surface, had time to take two or three gasping breaths when another monster struck. Deep as I dived, it picked me up like a matchstick. Again I surfaced, desperate for air. Wave number three was upon me, and conscious of diminishing strength I plunged for the bottom. The beast rolled me like a Catherine Wheel, and I came up utterly spent, conscious of an odd feeling on one foot, as my fin had been plucked from it, and was nowhere to be seen. I knew it was a non-floating fin and I could not expect to recover it.

Again my mind took a snapshot.

The headland was crowded with people and the helicopter simply hovered. A dog barked on the beach and I could hear the hum of the evening traffic. Sea birds flew over me on their way back to their cliff wall nests. Everyone seemed to know their place but me. They would go to their loved ones, their dinner and their cozy beds while I, who had underestimated the power of the elements, would be flushed away like any piece of flotsam, by the unknowing, uncaring sea.

I cried bitterly, but briefly, as my strength was returning with each breath I took.

I had been swept down to the Southern end of the beach and was lined up with the Mothers' Rock Pool where the waves were pounding. Above this stood the whitewashed swimming pool with the link chain border, normally high above water level, but now being pounded from above, sluicing torrents back into the sea.

If I could be thrown into that pool I reasoned, I would have to be prepared for a couple of broken ribs, and probably limbs as well. A small price to pay for life! I would do it! Lining up for the swimming pool, I caught the next beach express. I had miscalculated, and my watery chariot veered right, propelling me headlong towards the rocks. Expecting to have my brains dashed out on the rocks, I was shot through a gap between boulders in a giant jet of water. Into the sanctuary of the Mothers' Pool where I floated round and round in swift shallow water till I grounded. I rolled over, and removed my surviving fin.

Then I stood up, and fell over. So I stood up again, but I fell over again. After a couple of minutes I propped to a standing position. I became aware that two boys were watching me, with very large eyes.

"Was that you out there mister?"

"Ah, yes, I suppose so", trying to sound casual.

"Are you alright mister?"

I ached from head to toe and had survived an ordeal, but didn't think that it should show.

"Yes, of course" trying to sound casual.

I didn't realize that only a waist string and a scrap of the front of my swimming costume remained; nor that I was covered all over in a criss-cross pattern of cuts and abrasions relieved here and there by stripes various, and that most of these injuries were bleeding gently. As I made my way back to my car, I found my other fin, high on the beach.

I did no practice that evening, so heard the news for once. A helicopter had tried to rescue a surfboard rider at Tamarama, but had been unsuccessful.

The surfer was never seen again.

 

 

CH 2

 

SHE SPEAKS OUR LANGUAGE

 

We decide to try again. JK seemed to be an unpleasant character, but something had happened and we are hopeful. Again, we find time, put the cat out, and go the the ritual. Again we concentrate, and a little sooner this time, get results.

No J-K, but M-O-L-L

"Are you Moll Flanders?"(how we think in cliches)

The communication seems fluent but it still takes time.

Moll is from Liverpool and is twelve or thirteen. She fell from a rooftop where she had gone to retrieve a ball. We ask about her appearance and family and then someone asks for a message.

As the glass touches a letter, we take it in turns to commit the sequence to paper. Sometimes we have to stop to work out sense and meaning. For example, T-H-I-S-W-E-E-L is almost certainly THIS WEEK, depending on context. It is easy for the glass to bump a letter adjacent to that presumably intended. And without word gaps one has to decide whether R-A-B-B-I-T-E-A-R-S is "rabbit ears" or "rabbi tears"

"Do you have a message for us Moll?"

K-I-L-L-A-L-L-F-L-E-A-S

"Kill all fleas? Why Moll? Were you a dog perhaps? Did you have fleas?"

A-D-A-M-A-D-E-M

This has us puzzled for ages, until we make ADAM ADEM interpreted as "Adam 'ad 'em" or "Adam had them".

Quite a sophisticated word joke, somewhat Olde Worlde, and possibly a chestnut for an older generation, but a novel thought for us.

I wonder if any of the others has heard this expression before, but soon discover that the consensus is that I am the most likely source, sub-conscious or otherwise. I take it as a compliment, but am mystified.

Moll seems childish and irritating, and for some reason we seem to expect better from beyond the grave.

Nevertheless, we have had a conversation.

THE WRONG FRIENDS

What was a nice boy like me doing in the Army? you ask.

Thanks for asking.

I'll tell you.

Having completed year twelve before my seventeenth birthday, I joined the work-force in jobs ill-suited to my temperament. The Bureau of Meteorology seemed a good starting place, so I joined the Commonwealth Public Service. Attending my medical examination, I was mindful of an earlier experience where I had had to wait a considerable time before being able to produce a urine sample.

So I drank copious amounts of water beforehand.

The waiting room was crowded and progress was slow. By the time I was called, my need was urgent. I was ushered into a cubicle innocent of plumbing, and was handed a jug which I was to return to the doctor's room on the far side of the waiting room.

The relief was immense but turned to consternation as the level rose and rose, finally stopping perilously close to the rim. The short journey across the waiting room was one of life's longest walks, gliding with pointed toes to avoid the humiliation of spillage.

Within a year, I had to undergo another "medical", for another employer. Unable to face the further maths required for a career as a meteorologist, and obsessed by my musical interests, I felt a spell as a draughtsman for the Titles Office might provide me with needed discipline.

For this medical, I felt prepared, and took a small draught of water and a ten- minute walk to the appointment.

A modest sized vessel with an elasticised plastic cover was provided, and I produced the sample in a normal ablutions block. The doctor however, took an inordinate time with the sample. Eventually he reappeared.

"Er, Mr. Williams-did you pass this sample yourself?"

"All my own work"

"Yes, I mean, you didn't get it from the tap?"

"It's warm isn't it?"

"Yes, but tap water can be, too"

"Haven't you analysed it?"

"Yes, and it appears to be tap water".

I explained my procedure, and he deduced that swift passage through my body had done little more than take the chill off the iced water from the office cooler.

"We do have do be careful" he said. "Had a chap last week, filled it up with warm tap water and spat in it. Had us puzzled for ages.

What I really wanted to do was to play music. This is not unusual, but at the age of seventeen, with not a music lesson to my name nor any previous evidence of musicality, this seemed unlikely and unwise. I put down a payment on a saxophone with my first pay, in the belief that it was a clarinet. I knew that success would not arrive overnight, and allowed myself a year in which to become the world's pre-eminent saxophonist. My first abortive attempts to play were so disappointing that I immediately revised the schedule to two years.

I decided to join the Navy for training as a bandsman, but was rejected on the grounds that the psychologist's report recommended service as a pilot or midshipman training in the U.K. but not as a bandsman, for these were tradesmen in whose company I would be most unhappy. I assured them that I had survived the company of many people whom I didn't like, that I would be happy if only they could teach me the rudiments of music, that I would be distracted by a steep learning curve……but all to no avail. I refused the offer of other training.

Several years later I won the only lottery I have ever won in my life-the Conscription lottery.

I reported as demanded and advised the medical officer that I had previously been rejected for Military service on psychological grounds. He assured me that it was no longer a problem. I was now faced with a dilemma. I had earlier joined the CMF (an Army Reserve) in the Commando Unit, then in the Band. Commando I wanted for cheap parachute jumping but having endured the rigorous training, discovered that I would have to wait six months to take up a specialty, which could just as easily be rock climbing or diving, neither of which appealed. I wanted to float, not to climb or dive.

Training was brutal, but discipline was primitive compared to the discipline of my religious boarding school. And my companions were not very "nice". In fact, there seemed to be a strong criminal element, most of whom were interested in the mechanics of the next weapon to be mastered. Few of them seemed to have heard of families, and my only companion was an open-hearted Italian boy called Guido.

As the instructor droned on, in his khaki outfit under the khaki gum tree in front of a khaki jeep, my mind ran with the sound of jazz, classics, anything. Heart-shaped faces, caramel skin, silky hair floated in and out of my vision as the voice droned on…as the hard eyes narrowed in my direction…as the delivery sped up in order to arrive at-"recapitulation and question time". Time to concentrate! Memorize the sequence! memorize the sequence! memorize the sequence!

Recapitulation over, the sinewy arm thrusts in my direction. Up I leap, walk to the front, with my sequence routine running over and over. Always logical, always predictable, it is the Army way. The weapon practically falls apart, the ever-present acrid smell of preserving grease mingling with the preservative in our packs and the thin aroma of the midday meal wafting through the eucalyptus. Yesterday I mistook the stew for moderately heart soup.

Click, clack, reef, rack and the damn thing is ready and waiting for some peanut to seize and caress. Present according to formula, and you're done. But you'll pay for it somewhere, as the day is long.

Quite a few didn't endure. Some went home and some were hospitalised. The first few into the showers got a warmish shower, so there was a stampede in the dark. When a couple fell, they were trampled.

An assessing officer told me afterwards "You've actually done very well. But would you like to know what your commanding officers thought of you?"

What can you say to that?

He went on "They feel that you have great survival potential. But they feel that your friends might not be so lucky".

Again, this was small beer compared to my Boarding Schoolmaster's character assassinations.

I was not fazed, and replied "I have no friends here (sorry Guido)."

I suppose today, they would look at me sorrowfully, and say, "You are just not a team player".

But in fact, I'm just a bit particular about my team.

 

A BLAST FROM THE PAST

Even though we are not at all comfortable with each other's company, the sessions continue, although the material seems to be of the childish variety that seems to be so prevalent.

We move to the relative comfort of a large wooden table, and dispense with candles and warm-up rituals. Contact is quick and very positive. The glass moves with progressive ease, and we are soon "conversing" with a slightly odd, curious personality.

The glass is moving fast enough for one of us to leave off and act as secretary, generally separating the flow of letters into words as we go.

" I AM MUCH AMUSED BY THE PICTURE OF A SMALL BIRD ON PAUL'S SHIRT" -I am wearing a Tee Shirt with a Penguin Logo.

"THIS PICTURE MUST BE THE WORK OF THE DEVIL"-We have, opened on the table, a calendar with a photographed Autumn scene.

"MAXWELL OF NORWICH" in answer to the obvious question, "Who are you?"

Eventually, after a couple of sessions, we deduce. And are told, that Maxwell of Norwich lived and died in the fourteenth century.

His tentative first "utterances" seems to indicate a state of confusion. Asked where he had been before we called him up, he answers, "In a shoe box in Paul L's cupboard". Paul L does indeed have shoe boxes in his cupboard. I ask Maxwell whether he had been a spider or a mouse. He replies that he does not know, nor why he had answered in that way.

He returns to each session with fresh experience, and becomes much clearer in his assessment of his situation.

He tells us that he died at the age of 22 when his horse slipped on a wet hillside as he was mounting it.

He was a teacher of Mathematics and English, and made two trips to Turkey, for both Trade and Diplomatic reasons. They bought carpets and also taught English at the Turkish Court.

He now reveals that when we first "called him up" he was frightened.

"I EXPECTED TO BE LOOKING INTO THE FACES OF THE EVIL ONES OF MY DAY"

"Who are they?"

"WITCHES AND HERETICS"

"What about the "work of the devil" as you called that photograph.

"NOT KNOWING WHAT IT WAS, AND NEVER HAVING SEEN A PICTURE OF THIS QUALITY, I ASSUMED IT MUST BE THE WORK OF THE DEVIL, AS NO HUMAN HAND COULD HAVE DONE IT"

Max has no idea where he has been in the centuries after his death. However, he refuses to use the word "die" and insists on correcting us in this usage. He consistently says "When I left my body".

He appears to be behaving pretty much like any 22 year-old, and tells us that he has another contact, a young boy who is driving at Bathurst. In fact, he seems car-mad, to the point where we feel a little jealous of the hoon who is sharing our contact. A couple of phrases which Max uses strike us with force, partly because of their quaint language, and also their individual pint of view.

"…THIS INSANE AGE OF METAL PROGRESS"

"I AM HORRIFIED BY THE CLOCKWORK PRECISION WITH WHICH YOU LIVE YOUR LIVES"

Max is becoming quickly acclimatised, and concepts such as air travel and photography are becoming rapidly assimilated. There are occasional witticisms and word jokes, some of which don't seem very original.

We are amazed that he corrects us so often, and that our anticipations of his story are so often incorrect.

"I AM CO.."

"Concerned?"

"NO"

"Convinced?"

"NO"

"WHO'S TELLING THIS ST.."

"Who's telling this story, me or you?"

"YES. I AM CONSOLED BY....etc"

Relations between the girls however, are deteriorating fast, and Jean has been having unpleasant dreams, of teeth turning green, rotting and falling out. She has her doubts.

Time to find my own place. I take a place in inner suburban Surry Hills. Ensconced in my new home, I am closer again to another time. I must be very close to the spot where the author Ruth Park lived (The Harp In The South, A Fence Around the Cuckoo, Playing Beattie Bow and many more wonderful books).

THOU SHALT NOT…

My own religious background and upbringing did not dispose me kindly to Spiritualistic activity of any kind. In our 50s classes of 80, 90 and even 100 children, not much was left to chance. Religious devotion was highly encouraged, and remnants of a medieval belief system persisted. During Lent, and on certain Feast days, visits to the Church, and other devotions could win much remission from the pain of Purgatory, a cleansing unit prior to finally entering Paradise. This system appealed to young minds, and we would compete to chalk up the highest credit. What appalled us was the time scale involved, for the period of remission won appeared so great, that it implied a vast amount of time in Purgatory itself.

Our teachers were very clear. "Only God knows the future. Any one who tells you different is lying, and one must beware the influence of the Devil".

This subject was both thorny and horned and a whiff of sulphur seemed to accompany the subject for many years.

The subject of spiritualism and associated activities such as ouija boards did not come up very often in our religious instruction, but whenever it was mentioned, it was in disparaging terms. "Only God knows the future" and anyone who claimed otherwise was in error. Astrology was treated as a harmless pastime unless one took it too seriously…it was also seen as possibly the tip of a horned iceberg. Anything which appeared to be of a miraculous or supernatural nature in this context was suspicious, and very likely the work of the devil.

A STRANGE FRIEND

We don't see our former friends, and we run the sessions with just the two of us, and an occasional friend acting as note-taker and secretary.

We have been doing this for a long time now, and Max has become a friend. He doesn't give us much advice.

"THIS BUSINESS OF ADVICE AMUSES ME. I DON'T KNOW THE FUTURE. I SIMPLY TRY TO ADVISE YOU, AS MY FRIENDS, IN THE BEST WAY POSSIBLE. I BELIEVE THAT WITHOUT MY BODY, MY MENTAL PROCESSES AND JUDGEMENT ARE CONSIDERABLY SHARPER."

Max is still insistent on this point, as he is on the subject of "leaving his body" rather than dying. He is finding modern life exciting in many ways, and has found a new friend in Sydney. We are a little jealous to be told that he talks to someone who doesn't need to use the glass to communicate. This person lights a circle of candles while preparing his evening meal, usually nuts and vegetables. Gradually he begins to hear voices, and simply talks to Max or other contacts. Max tells us that he is a tailor, who is small and quaint, dresses in bright checked clothes, works in DJs in the city and has become reclusive and lonely because of his sexual orientation.

We want to know the secrets of the Universe, and Max seems to want to help us, but is not a great deal wiser than we. He will call at he sees it however, and we are grateful for honesty, and an opinion.

Firstly, he now thinks that the great amount of time which elapsed since he "left his body" may be due to the fact that his death was untimely and not part of a "natural plan".

On the other hand, he tells us that two of his friends lived to a relatively old age. One is Diana Blakesley, whom he intended to marry. He has enjoyed meeting up again with her, and he tells us that she has had several reincarnations.

The other is his friend, Griffith Hall, who accompanied him on one of the trade trips to Turkey. The name strikes me as odd, as his names are the surnames of two West Indian cricketers of the 60s.

Griffith, Max tells us, was over six feet tall, an imposing height in those days, and was called "Pot" as an ironic nickname. Furthermore, after Max "left his body" it was Griffith who married Diana.

On one occasion, he allows Diana to converse with us.

Immediately, the glass is slower and more controlled. The conversation is proper and not very stimulating or lively, and we realise how individual Max has become to us.

Max often seems to indicate a "glass-centric" viewpoint. On one occasion, after I had removed a pile of books to give us more room, he said "O YOU HAVE TAKEN AWAY MY OVERHANGING CLIFF".

On another, he started off the session in aimless sweeps, and we feared that we might have lost him. "What's going on Max?."

"IM DANCING".

Then we realised that the radio in the background was playing a Strauss Waltz suite.

Sometimes, when we go out for a coffee or such, we rest our fingers on a glass ashtray, and are sure it will move. We are rarely disappointed.

MY ATTORNEY BERNIE

I was nearing the end of my time in the Army, and my friends were aware of my unusual hobby. When they realised that my belief was genuine, a couple of them asked to be present, without participating. After some time, they were happy to act as secretary, speeding up matters somewhat. Bernie H I had known for some time. In fact, I met him at the Army's Music School where he was a star Apprentice, playing trumpet and French Horn. Bernie was confident to the point of bumptiousness and rarely doubted his abilities. This quality was not always appreciated, and when he travelled to Sydney to take up his posting, he was advised not to get off the train until it had crossed Sydney Harbour Bridge.

At Central Station the crowds disembarked, and Bernie twiddled his thumbs till the cleaner entered the carriage and said "Y'need t'get orf here mate".

"Oh no! I don’t get off till we're over the Bridge"

"Orright! But y'll be waitin a long time"

Here the penny dropped, and a mildly subdued Bernie made his way to the barracks.

One day Bernie had a call from the Conservatorium of Music. Could he help out on French Horn? The Horn player of the Woodwind Quintet was sick. We waited on Bernie's return. Was our standard high enough? Would he cut the mustard?

Bernie returned.

He plonked himself down and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette, and after a dramatic silence said "Well, you guys have got your work cut out ".

Bernie bought a new French Horn, but was soon highly unpopular because, for some reason it gave off a stench like bad cheese. Mortified, Bernie explained that he didn't like the bright edgy sound of the instrument, and had poured a quart of milk through the tubing, where unknowable life forms were obviously prospering.

During the next month, Bernie went through a tree-full of lemons, sluicing the juice through the horn and gradually stripping the lactic patina back.

Bernie saw the joke fortunately, and told me of about his friend in Canberra. He was another apprentice musician, who played trumpet and cornet.

Parade ground duty in Canberra was not a comfortable proposition, trying to keep fingers warm and operable in very cold conditions. There are also some instruments which are difficult to play with gloves on, no matter how well modified.

This apprentice decided to warm his cornet up in the oven, and left it there for a few minutes as he dressed. This was a pointless exercise of course, as the instrument, being metal, would cool down in a very short time.

Nevertheless, by the time he picked it up, it was more pleasant to the touch than usual. Out on to the parade ground he marched with the band, put the instrument to his lips, and pressed the middle valve down. However, when he "pressed the middle valve down" the music did not "go round and round". The instrument dramatically fell to pieces, clattering to the asphalt in a small shower of silver and gold pistons, rods and springs. The solder joining the parts had melted before resetting lightly.

It brought to mind my own experiences riding my bicycle to Church to serve Mass as an altar-boy many years earlier. I filled up the handlebars with hot water, plugging the ends with cork. Gloves were a better idea, and they don't rust the handlebars out.

Bernie was with me on that Canberra parade ground when I refused to play because of the cold. Unable to control my blue fingers I couldn't control what was coming out of the instrument. Some way of compromising had to be found, but no-one was prepared to discus it. So during the rehearsals I didn't even pretend to play.

The commanding officer was predictably incensed, and turned me over for discipline to our own commanding officer, who wished only to extract from me a promise that I would play properly on the morrow, when the Cadet's passout parade would be televised.

I said I would do my best, but it would depend.

On what? He asked.

The weather, I replied. My physical responses were beyond my control, and I only wished to do my job properly.

Stalemate!

Would I give a guarantee No, I wouldn't.

I returned to Sydney in disgrace, and was set to clean rifles within the guard house precinct at Paddington.

"All right lad" snarled the sergeant, "You've been fuckin us around. Now we're gunna fuck you around"

"Yes, Sergeant".

There was a pile of rifles to be cleaned. I set to, and thought I would gain my freedom in reasonable time. In due course, the sergeant returned, and began his inspection of my work. He was unusually quiet, but after inspecting a few weapons regained his composure and embarked on a long list of faults, most of them invisible to a microbe.

After that, I worked at a moderate pace, and appeared quite chastened, so that justice was seen to have been done.

Bernie was most amused.

Initially sceptical, he attended many Max sessions acting as secretary and remaining non-committal.

Max would describe the aura round each and every person, becoming fairly predictable after some time. A cream aura seemed to signify balance and contentment and in some cases where it was brighter, spirituality. Jagged red and white lines were anger and a certain green was money-hunger. In some ways this was like a mild parlour-game, but quite often his description would be right on the money where someone was feeling a strong emotion concealed from the rest of us.

I know there are many people with this gift, and I would like to be one of them.

But I'm not.