Chapter 2

Day 2, Wednesday

Next morning, it was of little surprise that I woke in Monté-Carlo.

I was alone. Giselle, my dream girl had left. It wasn’t unforeseen, nor was it that she wanted to leave, it was the way things were. I closed my eyes as I imagined how I wished it to be. I clung to the last fleeting memory of her embrace as it slipped away, thoughts of her body resting against mine, sweet breasts teasing my side...

The previous day, her arrival was an impromptu surprise, however her departure wasn’t unexpected.

Our day was carefree. As we wandered the town, we abandoned dignity and lost ourselves in fits of giggling over childish and nonsensical stories. A typical romantic couple. At dinner we were quieter, awash with anticipation as we picked at our food. Later that evening, in virtual silence, we sat in the lounge and looked out at the lights of the town, bodies tantalisingly close as we sipped wine interspersed with kisses. Throughout the night, until I fell asleep, she was with me, vivacious, capricious and so tender.

In the morning, all that was left were brittle memories. I yearned for her, so why had I forced her to leave?

I slid out of bed as I crushed regrets in my mind. I had other, more mundane things to consider.

In the lounge, next to the landscape window, was a spiral staircase and, at its top, was the flat roof. Plants and shrubs, housed in terracotta pots, were scattered around the garden furniture. As I ate breakfast, I studied the 360 degree panorama. It was phenomenal. Below and in front, the town and harbour basked in the morning sun and behind, towered the sheer cliff sides of Mont des Mules.

After I’d eaten, I lay back on a lounger, head at rest in my hands, while I admired the blueness of the cloudless sky. My memory reached back to an unforgettable day and from then, it retraced the events which led me to Monaco.

Fate is remarkable. One seemingly insignificant event is able to change a person’s life. Destiny may be reversed and sent in a different direction by an unscheduled act, such as meeting one’s life partner or the start of a new career. The single twist of fate that led me there was a news item in a 19th century newspaper.

There is a branch of the British Museum in the North London suburb of Colindale. Unlike the buildings in Central London, it isn’t grandiose, but a modest two storey construction, plus basement.

Colindale is a reference library which stores millions of newspapers. Its prime purpose is to file and to make available for research, every periodical published in Britain. If you wished to read, say a Daily Mirror from 1940, a man in a brown cow gown will collect the leather bound run from the basement and deposit it at your viewing desk.

In addition to the British newspapers, the underground vaults store a stockpile of leading American newspapers. It was a casual chance that changed my life when I opened one of them. It was the New York World, which under the later proprietorship of Joseph Pulitzer, was to be a pioneer of yellow journalism.

In an October 1863 edition, I read a story which, I later discovered, caused considerable investigation at the time.

By modern journalistic standards, the language was stilted and the headline was hardly an eye catcher. The banner read:

‘Woman crosses sea dressed in night-gown.

‘New York, Tuesday. EXCLUSIVE.

‘The City of Limerick steamer set sail from Liverpool on 3rd October, bound for New York. Amongst the passengers were Mr Wilmot, a businessman, and a librarian, Mr Tait. These two gentlemen shared a state room, although they were strangers before the voyage.

‘The crossing was hindered by fierce North Atlantic storms which commenced almost directly the ship put to sea. As a result of the tempest, Mr Wilmot was kept awake. Ten days after embarkation, the gale moderated slightly and finally, he was successful in his endeavour to sleep.

‘During the night, he dreamt he was visited by his wife, who should have been at their home in New York. He told me she came to his state room and stood in the doorway, hesitant and concerned. “After a while,” Mr Wilmot tells me, “she came to me, bent down and kissed me.” Afterwards, he fell asleep.

‘Next morning he was upbraided by his fellow passenger, Mr Tait, who threatened to report him for entertaining a woman in their cabin during the night.

‘This remarkable story does not end here, for when Mr and Mrs Wilmot were reunited in New York, she asked him if he had received a visit from her on the night of the 13th. He was surprised, he’d thought it a mere dream. Nevertheless, he confirmed the visit and, to authenticate her statement, she described in great detail the cabin he shared with Mr Tait.

‘When I interviewed her, she repeated the story. She told me she had read of another ship, The Africa, which left Liverpool earlier and had been wrecked in the storm.

‘Worried for her husband’s safety, she was in despair and lay awake thinking of him. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, she slept and felt herself leave her body and fly to the ship. She went straight to the cabin, where she found two berths. In the upper was an unknown man who glared at her. This startled her, but although she hesitated, she went to her husband’s berth, bent down and kissed him. Immediately afterward, she returned home.

‘Later, I spoke to the other gentleman in Mrs Wilmot’s dream, Mr Tait, the librarian... ‘

Although the reporter’s narrative continued, I’d read the substance of the incident. On the Museum viewing desks, requisition forms were provided for the loan of the newspapers. On the back of one, I scrawled my initial thoughts.

I repeated those thoughts, as I relaxed on my roof top. The requisition form was elsewhere, although I didn’t need it. I would always remember those scribbled words which were to alter my life.

There were four:

‘Significant points of report -

1. ESP (t) between the Wilmots. 2. ESP (t) between Mrs W and Tait.

3. OBE - Mrs W did not physically travel. 4. All happened during respective dreams.’

When I finished reading Dad’s hand written note, I replaced it, plus the photocopy of the newspaper report inside his notebook.

I slid from my bed and opened my bedroom door to check the hallway. It was empty - no Charlie. I didn’t want her to pry, couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut. I returned to my bed and re-opened the book.

The news item was fascinating, but it was the requisition slip that excited me. It was obvious what Dad had stumbled upon. I went over his observations and an idea assembled in my mind and, as it built, I was certain that he must have thought of the same concept at Colindale. For well over an hour, I scanned his notes and, by the end of that first session, I trembled with excitement.

I fumbled under the bed for the books and folders to ensure they were safe. I’d found an old school satchel into which I stuffed Dad’s research material. I thought it unlikely Charlie would ever go through it. Most of the time she exhibited a severe aversion to school books, in particular during holidays.

The previous afternoon, Mum resumed our three-some around Dad’s bed to ‘sort out the practicalities and logistics, ‘ although by that time, Charlie and I figured it out for ourselves.

“Your father isn’t ill. Despite that, care and regular observation will be essential. During his examination this morning, Colin and I agreed he should be relocated to our home.”

Charlie and I smiled. The family was reunited. Not the way we would have chosen, but better than a nursing home. Most people have a spare bedroom, perhaps two, whereas Colin’s house accommodated six spares and one of them was to be home for Dad.

“I’ve produced a rota of observation periods. We’ll employ an agency nurse who will be under my supervision and Colin will do regular health checks. You girls will be required to help from time to time.

“Any comments?”

“No,” we said.

“Right girls, we must pack. Charlie you bundle your things, then start on Sam’s.” She handed me a list. “Sam, you’ll package his essentials. I’ll return here at least once a week to arrange cleaning, so I’ve restricted the list to the bare necessities.”

I walked away, studying the inventory, as I sung Bear Necessities. I spied Mum over my shoulder and she was shaking her head in defeat. Most of the time she was concerned I didn’t take life seriously. She was correct, I hadn’t - not until then.

I set to work and, when I was sure it was safe, searched his study for the books and papers.

It was easy. My father is organised, everything alphabetically catalogued. Books, records, CDs, videos, even his credit cards were systematically arranged in his wallet. He really is a sad man, a complete anaraknaphobic. I’m forced to admit it was his logical way of thinking, combined with a love for mathematics which made him successful in both writing computer programs and in managing a business. Can you believe anyone would love maths?

I found a line of books stacked in sequence, starting at Blackmore, Sue and ending with Wambach, Helen. By the time Mum entered his study, the majority of them - and the folders - were packed.

She was wary. “What are you doing, Sam?”

“Sorting out books to read to Dad.” While I held her eyes, I added Catch 22 and Catcher in the Rye to the top of the pile to hide the titles of the books underneath.

“That’s a first-rate idea, Sam. You assume he will be able to hear us whilst he’s asleep?”

“Sure he will.”

“I hope you’re right. Don’t be too long though; it’s not a high priority.”

“OK,” I said, “Five minutes, maximum.”

She left. It was fortunate I was able to finish bundling the complete package into two holdalls, after which I piled further innocent titles on top to act as camouflage.

At 5.00 sharp, two of Colin’s juniors arrived at Dad’s house with suitable transport and a stretcher. By dinner time, we were relocated in Colin’s home. In less than a day my world had grown dark and unfriendly. The tight grasp with which I held onto my youth was loosened over subsequent days. Innocence was replaced by an enforced maturity and new obligations.

London / Monaco

I finished the New York World narrative, left Colindale and, within minutes was on the M1, heading back to the Midlands. Normally, I used the M40, but that time I wasn’t going home. I had things to do. Once the traffic thinned, I was on my mobile. As an avid book reader, I already had ‘Waterstones, Birmingham, ‘ in the phone’s memory. I buttoned the key.

“Good afternoon,” said a polite voice, “Waterstones.”

“Hello. I’m looking for books on dreams and ESP.”

“Thank you. I’ll put you through.”

Saturday afternoon is probably the worst time to ring a busy shop in central Birmingham. The extension rang out without a reply and my mind wandered.

Somewhere, years earlier, I’d read we used a little over ten percent of our brain and, as a business man, I held a mild fixation with productivity. A mere tenth resembled inefficiency and that bugged me; there must be a purpose for the remaining ninety percent. Over time, I developed a simple, probably naive, belief that there was a latent use for the surplus grey matter and, what better, than ESP to occupy this portion? Once I convinced myself the extra sensory perception existed in my brain, the next step was to use it. Had I found the way?

A young woman answered. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” This was my introduction to Nina, although at the time, she was only a voice. “Hello,” she said, “may I help you?”

“Hope so. I need to source a book on dreams.”

“Interpretations?”

“No. Er, I don’t know how to describe what I want.”

She chuckled. “That may be a problem then. We have a wide range. It’s a popular subject.”

I struggled for the words. “No doubt, you’re busy, but would you mind if I explain in detail?”

“No, please do.”

“Years ago, Freud I think, wrote that a dream was the ideal occasion for telepathy. If I use that basic idea, it suggests a normal dream wouldn’t work, after all, the last thing...”

“Lucidity!”

“Sorry?” I said, confused.

“Lucid dreams. With a lucid dream, you have control.”

I didn’t know what she was talking of, but she knew and that was good enough for me.

“Great. Do you have any books on ... on...”

“Lucid dreams? Yes, Sir.”

“Fine. I’ll call in. What time do you close?”