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

The door was opened by a white-coated receptionist. ‘Dr Bennet?’ she said in response to Jo’s enquiry. ‘Just one minute and I’ll ring upstairs.’ The place smelled of antiseptic and stephanotis. Jo waited in the hall, staring at herself in a huge gilt-framed mirror. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and she could see the strain in her face as she watched the woman on the telephone in the reflection behind her.

‘You can go up, Miss Clifford,’ the woman said after a moment. ‘The first floor. His secretary will meet you.’

Jo walked up slowly, aware of a figure waiting for her on the half-landing at the head of the flight of stairs. Sarah Simmons was a tall fair-haired woman in a sweater and shirt and Jo found herself sighing with relief. She had been afraid of another white coat.

‘Jo Clifford?’ Sarah extended her hand with a pleasant smile. ‘Pete Leveson spoke to us about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Jo grinned. ‘Did he warn you I’m the world’s most violent sceptic?’

She laughed. ‘He did, but Carl is very tolerant. Come and meet him.’

Carl Bennet was sitting at a desk, in a room which looked out over the street. It was a pleasant book-lined study, furnished with several deep armchairs and a sofa, all with discreet but expensive upholstery; the fitted carpet was scattered with Afghan rugs – sufficiently worn to emphasise their antiquity. It was a comfortable room; a man’s room, Jo thought with sudden amusement, the sort of room which should smell of cigars. It didn’t. There was only the faintest suspicion of cologne.

Carl Bennet rose to greet her with a half-hesitant smile. ‘Miss Clifford. Please, come and sit down. Sarah will bring us some coffee – unless you would prefer tea?’ He spoke with a barely perceptible mid-European accent. He nodded at Sarah who disappeared through a door in the far wall, then he looked back at Jo. ‘I find my kitchen is the most important part of my office here,’ he said gently. ‘Now tell me, exactly how can I help you?’

Jo took out her notebook and, balancing it on her knee, sat down on one of the chairs. It was half turned with its back to the window. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

‘As I believe Pete Leveson told you, I am writing an article on hypnotic regression. I should like to ask you about it and if possible see how you work.’ She was watching his face intently. ‘Yesterday I attended a session with Bill Walton in Richmond. I wonder whether you know him?’

Bennet frowned. ‘I’ve heard of him of course –’

‘And you don’t approve?’

‘On the contrary. He has published some interesting papers. But we practise in very different ways.’

‘Can you tell me how your approach differs?’ Jo kept her eyes fixed on his face as Sarah came in with a tray.

‘Of course. Mr Walton is an amateur, Miss Clifford. He does not, I believe, ever claim medical benefits from his work. I am a psychologist and I use this form of hypnosis in the treatment of specific conditions. I use it primarily in a medical context, and as such it is not something to be debunked by cheap journalism. If that is what you have in mind, then I would ask you to leave now.’

Jo flushed angrily. ‘I feel sure, Dr Bennet, that you will convince me so thoroughly that I will have no cause to debunk – as you put it – anything,’ she said a little sharply. She took a cup from Sarah.

‘Good.’ He smiled disarmingly. He took off his spectacles and polished them with the cloth from the spectacle case which lay on his desk.

‘Are you really going to allow me to sit in on a session with a patient?’ Jo asked cautiously.

Bennet nodded. ‘She has agreed, with one proviso. That you do not mention her name.’

‘I’ll give you a written undertaking if you wish,’ Jo said grimly. ‘Would you explain a little of what is going to happen before she gets here?’

‘Of course.’ He stood up and, walking over to the chesterfield, sat down again. ‘It has been found that unexplained and hitherto incurable phobias frequently have their explanation in events which have occurred to a subject either in very early infancy or childhood, or in a previous existence. It is my job to regress the patient to that time, take them once more through the trauma involved, which is often, I may say, a deeply disturbing experience, to discover what it is that has led to the terror which has persisted into later life or even into another incarnation.’

Jo strove to keep the disbelief out of her voice as she said, ‘Of course, this presupposes your absolute belief in reincarnation?’

‘Of course.’

She could feel his eyes steady on her face. She glanced away. ‘I am afraid you will have to convince me, Dr Bennet. I must admit to being very dubious. If you were to affirm to me your belief in reincarnation as part of a religious philosophy I should not presume to query it. It is this quasi-medical context –’ she indicated the consulting room couch. ‘Are you saying therefore that everyone has lived before?’

He gave a tolerant smile. ‘In my experience, no. Some have lived on this earth many times, others are new souls.’

She stared at him, swallowing with difficulty the bubble of laughter which threatened to overwhelm her as he stood up again, a solid greying man in his sixties, and walked over to her chair. ‘I can see you are derisive, Miss Clifford,’ he said severely, his eyes on hers, magnified a little by the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘One grows used to it as an initial, perhaps defensive response. All I ask is that you keep an open mind while you are here. Are you objective enough to be able to do that?’

Jo looked away. ‘I am sorry, I really am. I pride myself on my objectivity and I will try. In fact –’ she set her cup down at her feet ‘– you have aroused my curiosity intensely. Can you tell before you start whether people have lived before?’

He smiled. ‘In some cases, yes. Sometimes it is harder.’

Jo took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell by looking at me?’

He stared at her, holding her gaze for a while, until she dropped her eyes and looked away.

‘I think you have been on this earth before, yes.’

She felt her skin creep. ‘How can you tell?’

He shrugged. ‘I might be wrong. It is an instinct I have developed after years of studying the subject.’ He frowned. ‘I have a suspicion that the patient you are about to meet may not have done so in fact,’ he said with a grimace. ‘I can’t promise anything from her that will necessarily help you with your article. I have had one preliminary interview with the lady – we shall just call her Adele. She is a good hypnotic subject. She has a very strong and illogical fear of water which can be explained by nothing that she can remember. I shall try to regress her and it may be that we need go no further than her own childhood to discover the cause.’ He walked thoughtfully back to his desk, glancing at his watch. ‘She is late, I fear. Sarah!’ He called towards the side room from where they could hear the sound of a typewriter. It stopped and Sarah appeared in the doorway. ‘Ring Mrs Noble and make sure she has remembered her appointment.’

He scowled at the blotter on his desk, tracing the ornate gold tooling of the leather with a neatly manicured finger. ‘This lady is both vague and a hysteric,’ he said almost to himself. ‘It would not entirely surprise me if she did not turn up.’ He picked up the file on his desk and turned back the cover.

Jo felt a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘Are people usually apprehensive about your treatment?’ she asked after a moment’s pause.

He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘It would be strange if they were not.’

Sarah appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, Carl, she’s not coming. She says her daughter is ill and she has to go to see her. I told her she’d have to pay for the appointment anyway –’

Bennet gave a sharp gesture of dismissal. He stood up abruptly. ‘I am sorry, Miss Clifford. I was looking forward to proving my case to you. I am afraid this visit has wasted your time.’

‘Not necessarily surely.’ Sarah had picked up the folder on the desk. ‘Have you ever considered undergoing hypnotic regression yourself, Joanna? After all, Carl now has an afternoon free – at your disposal.’

Jo swallowed. ‘I suppose I should try it myself,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Do you think I could be regressed, Dr Bennet?’

He spread his fingers in the air and shrugged. ‘We could try. People of strong personality tend to make good subjects, but of course they must allow themselves to be hypnotised. No one can be against their will, you know. If you are prepared to set aside your reservations completely I would be prepared to try.’

‘I have no phobias to speak of.’ She managed a little smile. ‘Hobby horses yes. Of such are my columns made, but phobias, I don’t think so.’

‘Then we could regard it merely as an interesting experiment.’ He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy.

Jo found she was breathing rather fast. The palms of her hands were sweating. ‘I’m afraid I would be a difficult subject even if I co-operate as hard as I can. I did take part in a survey at university under Professor Cohen. He didn’t manage to get anywhere with me.’

Bennet sat down on the edge of the desk and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Michael Cohen was one of the great authorities on the subject. I wish I had met him before he died,’ he said a little wistfully. ‘I’m surprised to find you so hostile to the theories behind hypnotic regression if you were involved in any of his clinical trials. When you say nothing happened, do you mean he was not able to regress you at all?’

Jo shook her head. ‘He couldn’t hypnotise me. I didn’t know why. I didn’t fight it. I wanted it to happen.’

Bells were ringing in her mind once more, full of warning. Almost in panic she turned away from him, not wanting him to see the struggle going on inside her, and crossed the carpet to look out of the window into the busy street below, shivering in spite of the humid warmth of the afternoon. The sun was reflecting on a window opposite, dazzling as she stared at it. She turned back to Bennet.

‘I have a small tape recorder in my bag. Would you object if I used it while you try?’

He shook his head and gestured towards a table by the far wall. ‘As you see, I use one too, for various reasons. I also always insist that Miss Simmons is present to act as a chaperone.’ He did not smile. ‘I should explain, however, that often one needs a preliminary session to establish a rapport between hypnotist and patient. It is a far more delicate relationship than that implied by music hall acts on the pier or sensational fiction. So you should not expect too much on this occasion.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Or too little either, Miss Clifford. You may indeed be a hard subject – I’m sure with your co-operation, though, I can achieve something. And I have a feeling you would be an interesting case.’ He smiled boyishly. ‘Quite a challenge in fact. But I don’t wish to talk you into this if you still have any reservations. I think you should take a little time to consider –’

‘No!’ Jo surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply. ‘No, let’s do it. I’d like to.’