The Ouija board
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
In the early
70s I lived in a charming flat at the top of a
Victorian house at 19 Craven Hill, Bayswater,
London W2. I shared it with my best friend Helga
who at that time was a journalist working for the
newspaper France Soir in Holborn.
She in turn had a second generation Jamaican
friend who was born in North London called Carole
Frances who worked for the BBC Caribbean service
at Bush House. Carole was later to become my
friend when Helga went off to live in Toronto as
a radio journalist for CBC.
Carole in turn had a Chinese friend who was
a fortune card reader and a medium called Sonia.
One evening Sonia announced that she wanted to
read the Ouija Board. I was up for everything
different and, in my innocence of the Occult, had
no idea what that could be. The three of us ate
something at my place, lit candles, drew the
heavy amber velvet curtains and in the flickering
light waited for Sonia's words of wisdom from the
spirits.
We sat at a central antique mahogany oval table
in my lounge and she placed her precious board in
the centre putting out cards with letters
carefully placed in strategic positions before
our eyes. A glass tumbler was placed upside down
in the centre of the board. Then she went into a
trance mumbling Chinese words. Quoting Confucius
maybe?
Carole and I sat silently glancing sideways at
each other suspiciously looking at Sonia with her
incantations evoking the spirits. Suddenly she
began to shudder and spoke in a deeper voice to
someone who she claimed was a 15th century
milkman! Did he have a message for us mortals?
Yes he had!! The tumbler moved. I saw it with my
own eyes. It moved from letter to letter and
spelt out the word CAVE!
What could that mean? I had no connections with a
cave!!! I had never been near one let alone
inside one. But no! Ignorant me! It was Latin for
beware!
Just then the telephone rang breaking the silence
and mood of the evening. I ran to it in the small
vestibule of my flat closing the door behind me
for privacy.
It was an attractive tall Irish man called
Jonathan who I had met in a pub with his friend
in Knightsbridge a few weeks earlier. I was
convinced he was connected to the IRA. Just a few
clues and mysterious references and typically
Irish blarney, no straight answers to my probing
questions.
It sounded like he was somewhere noisy with music.
He explained he was at a party by the canal in
Little Venice in a town house and there was a
rave going on with lots to eat and drink. I
explained I was with two girl friends.
'Bring them along. Get a taxi and I will pay.'
We did as the seance was over and forgotten. We
arrived and Jonathan paid off the cab. But we
climbed the stairs into a silent empty
uninhabited flat! Sparse furniture and just
nothing else. No people, no drinks and certainly
no food. He had tricked us. He must have played a
tape down the phone to entice us. I think he was
on a high because he disappeared into the
bathroom and then ran around the room naked
chasing after another naked man like in the film
'Women in love' when Oliver Reed romped around
naked on the floor with Alan Bates. Only Jonathan
had a leather black belt and this was
flagellation.
Disgusted we wanted to leave immediately. An
older Irish man who I had met previously in the
pub called Donal, suddenly appeared out of the
dark from nowhere and 'saved' me escorting
me home. The other girls disappeared like
frightened foxes. Donal was my saviour. But was
this a trick too? Was he a magician?
A fascinating man. The Irish charm. A poet. An
intellectual but was he IRA too? I was seduced.
I fell for him on the spot and we began a
brief affair. This was the promiscuous 70s after
all. I cooked for him and was mesmerised by his
softly spoken poetical words. He told me he had a
pilot's licence and would be flying to Finland.
Did I want to join him in the skies? I sure did.
Saturday he whispered. I could hardly wait. He
told me to bring my passport and my toothbrush!
On Friday he called and said he had something
important he wanted to discuss with me, could he
come over? I instinctively knew something was
wrong. I could feel it. My heart was beating
loudly. My stomach was in knots. He arrived and
kissed me fatherly on the brow telling me that he
was no longer 'available' for a relationship
because he had gone back to his wife. I didn't
even know he was married. I had never thought to
ask. Stupid innocent me! I was about 27 and he
must have been in his mid 40s. I was always
attracted to older men. I broke down crying, even
sobbing. He carried me into my bedroom and
literally put me to bed. Kissed me again Adieu on
my brow paternally, and crept out of the room
without looking back. I recall the click of the
front door and he was gone forever. I howled all
night like a wolf. Life was so unfair!
I never saw Jonathan again either. He and his
friends just disappeared. But a couple of
years later an odd thing happened. My second flat
mate the beautiful Patricia Barnes-Ward who
worked in the sports department of the BBC, came
back late one night and told me she found Donal
repenting how he had treated me on the doorstep
of 19 Craven Hill. She was confused when this
midnight encounter took place and told me years
later not at the time.
All very strange. I have never had Irish friends
ever since. I adore them but they are rogues and
rascals who have touched the Blarney Stone in the
greenest superstitious island dancing with the
lepricorns.
Written
at The Emporium, Brighton in November 2015.
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