Collective scepticism

The theatre was a converted Anglican church. Was there perhaps a lingering, antagonistic Christian spirit at work here tonight? Or was there perhaps a rival medium in the audience, blocking the channels? These were very real possibilities, said Paul, barely suppressing his anger. But he rather thought that the root cause was the collective scepticism of the audience. He had to say that we were one of the most difficult audiences he and wife Tracy had ever had to work with. It was almost unbelievable, he said, but he’d heard titters and even ‘comments’.

Tracy was close to tears. She began to pace the stage. ‘I’m getting a Daniel,’ she said. ‘I can see a motorcycle helmet. There’s been an accident. Does anyone know a Daniel killed in a motorbike accident?’ So far there’d been no takers for a passed-on poodle, a little boy with fair hair possibly drowned, a stillborn baby, and a man called Colin or Collins. There were no takers for Daniel, either. I looked along row B of the Little Theatre, Torquay. Women over 50, mainly. Cast-iron suntans. Masses of cleavage. Gold. Rings like knuckledusters. (On the English Riviera any excuse to put on the finery and go out is sufficient, even a ten-quid-a-head clairvoyant show on a wet Wednesday night.) I was the sole male in a row of Roman empresses — enough to put even the living dead off their stroke.

We stared impassively back at Tracy. Her mounting panic was turning out to be a more absorbing spectacle by far than the exercise of her or her husband’s peculiar gift. She scanned the audience desperately for a sign. Eventually a quiet, well-spoken, female voice from near the back said, ‘My nephew. He was killed on a motorbike. He wasn’t a Daniel, though.’ Paul and Tracy exchanged exasperated sighs; then Tracy patiently reminded us of the ground rules.